\ 


C.RICH'D  WHITTEMORE 
Rare  Boofcs 


I 


". 


V       " 


POEMS  AND   PARODIES 


IptL.^- 
PHCEBE     CAREY. 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR,    REED,   AND    FIELDS 

M  DCCC  LIT. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


•  CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF  AND  COMPANY,  PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


ENTERING    HEAVEN 1 

OUR  BABY 5 

THE   OUTCAST      

THE   LIFE   OF   TRIAL 10 

DEATH   OF   A   FRIEND 12 

CHALMERS 14 

CHANGES 16 

DEATH   SCENE 20 

OUR  FRIEND 22 

THE  CONVICT'S  CHILD 24 

AT  THE  WATER'S  EDGE 27 

DEAD • 29 

THE  WATCHER'S  STORY 32 

RESOLVES 39 

DREAMS 42 

PROPHECIES 44 

THE   CONFESSION 47 


IV  CONTENTS. 

THE  POEM «  .          .49 

TO   ONE  WHO   SANG   OP   LOVE 51 

ARCHIE 53 

MAIDEN  FEARS 55 

THE   UNGUARDED   MOMENT 58 

NELLY 60 

BURNING   THE   LETTERS 63 

A    LAMENT 65 

THE  LULLABY 67 

LEFT  ALONE 71 

THE   RETROSPECT 73 

ONE    SHALL   BE    TAKEN        .......  75 

THE    BROTHERS 77 

REMORSE 80 

PROPHECY 83 

THE   DREAMER    .  .    • .  .  85 

THE    CONSECRATION         .  .  .........  .88 

DRAWING   WATER .  90 

SOLEMNITY   OF   LIFE       .  .  .       .   .  .X          .  .  .92 

MY   BLESSINGS    .  .  .  .....*..  .  95 

SABBATH   THOUGHTS       .  .,«..•..  .  .  .98 

NEARER   HOME    .        .  .        .  .        ,  .  .        ,  .  •        .   .      ;     .         101 

HYMN .103 

SOWING    SEED     .        ....       ....       ,    •       .    •          •  •         105 

THE   BAPTISM .    107 


CONTENTS.  V 

THE    CHRISTIAN   WOMAN Ill 

THE   HOSTS   OP   THOUGHT 114 

OUR  HOMESTEAD 119 

THE   BOOK  OF   POEMS 122 

TO   FRANK 124 

PLEA   FOR  THE   HOMELESS  .  .  •  .  .127 

MORNING 129 

DAWN 131 

PAKODIES. 

MARTHA   HOPKINS 135 

WORSER  MOMENTS 140 

THE  ANNOYER 144 

SAMUEL  BROWN 147 

GRANNY'S  HOUSE 150 

THE    DAY    IS    DONE 158 

JOHN  THOMPSON'S  DAUGHTER        .        .        .        .    •   .  161 

GIRLS   WERE   MADE   TO   MOURN 164 

TO   INEZ 168 

TO   MARY 171 

THE    CHANGE 174 

HE   NEVER  WROTE    AGAIN 177 

THE   SOIREE '       .  179 

THE    CITY   LIFE 182 


vi  CONTENTS. 

THE  MARRIAGE   OF   SIR  JOHN   SMITH      .           .           •           •  185 

BALLAD   OF   THE   CANAL 187 

I    REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER 189 

JACOB 191 

THE   WIFE 192 

A   PSALM   OF   LIFE 193 

"THERE'S  A  BOWER  OF  BEAN-VINES"          .        .        •  196 

WHEN   LOVELY  WOMAN 198 

SHAKESPEARIAN   READINGS 199 


POEMS. 


ENTERING    HEAVEN. 

SOFTLY  part  away  the  tresses 

From  her  forehead  of  white  clay, 

And  across  her  quiet  bosom 
Let  her  pale  hands  lightly  lay  ; 

Never  idly  in  her  lifetime 
Were  they  folded  thus  away. 

She  hath  lived  a  life  of  labor, 
She  has  done  with  toil  and  care, 

She  hath  lived  a  life  of  sorrow, 
She  has  nothing  more  to  bear, 

And  the  lips  that  never  murmured 
Never  more  shall  move  iri  prayer, 
l 


ENTERING   HEAVEN. 

You  who  watched  with  me  beside  her, 
As  her  last  of  nights  went  by, 

Know  how  calmly  she  assured  us 
That  her  hour  was  drawing  nigh  ; 

How  she  told  us,  sweetly  smiling, 
She  was  glad  that  she  could  die. 

Many  times  from  off  the  pillow 
Lifting  up  her  face  to  hear, 

She  had  seemed  to  watch  and  listen, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  fear, 

Often  asking  those  about  her 
If  the  day  were  drawing  near. 

Till  at  last,  as  one  aweary, 

To  herself  she  murmured  low, 

"  Could  I  see  him,  could  I  bless  him 
Only  once  before  I  go  ; 

If  he  knew  that  I  was  dying, 
He  would  come  to  me,  I  know." 

Drawing  then  my  head  down  gently, 

Till  it  lay  beside  her  own, 
Said  she,  "  Tell  him  in  his  anguish, 

When  he,  finds  that  I  am  gone, 


ENTERING    HEAVEN. 

That  the  bitterness  of  dying 
Was  to  leave  him  here  alone. 

"  Leave  me  now,  my  dear  ones,  leave  me. 

You  are  wearied  now,  I  know  ; 
You  have  all  been  kind  and  watchful, 

You  can  do  no  more  below, 
And  if  none  I  love  are  near  me, 

'T  will  be  easier  to  go. 

"  Let  your  warm  hands  chill  not  slipping 

From  my  fingers'  icy  tips, 
Be  there  not  the  touch  of  kisses 

On  my  uncaressing  lips, 
Let  no  kindness  see  the  darkening 

Of  my  eyes'  last,  long  eclipse. 

"  Never  think  of  me  as  lying 
By  the  dismal  mould  o'erspread, 

But  about  the  soft  white  pillow 
Folded  underneath  my  head  ; 

And  of  summer  flowers  weaving 
A  rich  broidery  o'er  my  bed. 

"  Think  of  the  immortal  spirit 
Living  up  above  the  sky, 


ENTERING    HEAVEN. 

And  of  how  my  face,  there  wearing 

Light  of  immortality, 
Looking  earthward,  is  o'erleaning 

The  white  bastions  of  the  sky." 

Stilling  then,  with  one  last  effort, 
All  her  weakness  and  her  woe, 

She  seemed  wrapt  in  pleasant  visions 
But  to  wait  her  time  to  go ; 

For  she  never  after  midnight 
Spoke  of  any  thing  below,  — 

But  kept  murmuring  very  softly 

Of  cool  streams  and  pleasant  bowers, 

Of  a  pathway  going  up  brightly, 

Where  the  fields  were  white  with  flowers 

And  at  daybreak  she  had  entered 
On  a  better  life  than  ours. 


OUR    BABY. 

WHEN  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
Ran  along  the  hill  and  meadow, 
And  with  milk-white  fingers  parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden-hearted ; 
Opening  over  ruins  hoary 
Every  purple  morning-glory, 
And  outshaking  from  the  bushes 
Singing  larks  and  pleasant  thrushes  ;  — 
That  's  the  time  our  little  baby, 
Strayed  from  Paradise,  it  may  be, 
Came  with  eyes  like  heaven  above  her : 
O,  we  could  not  choose  but  love  her ! 

Not  enough  of  earth  for  sinning, 
Always  gentle,  always  winning, 


OUR  BABY. 

Never  needing  our  reproving, 
Ever  lovely,  ever  loving  ; 
Starry  eyes  and  sunset  tresses, 
White  arms,  made  for  light  caresses, 
Lips,  that  knew  no  word  of  doubting, 
Often  kissing,  never  pouting  ; 
Beauty  even  in  completeness,  . 
Overfull  in  childish  sweetness  ;  — 
That  's  the  way  our  little  baby, 
Far  too  pure  for  earth,  it  may  be, 
Seemed  to  us,  who  while  about  her 
Deemed  we  could  not  do  without  her. 

When  the  morning,  half  in  shadow, 
Ran  along  the  hill  and  meadow, 
And  with  milk-white  fingers  parted 
Crimson  roses,  golden-hearted  ; 
Opening  over  ruins  hoary 
Every  purple  morning-glory," 
And  outshaking  from  the  bushes 
Singing  larks  and  pleasant  thrushes  ;  - 
That  's  the  time  our  little  baby, 
Pining  here  for  heaven,  it  may  be, 
Turning  from  our  bitter  weeping, 
Closed  her  eyes  as  when  in  sleeping, 


OUR  BABY. 

And  her  white  hands  on  her  bosom 
Folded  like  a  summer  blossom. 

Now  the  litter  she  doth  lie  on, 
Strewed  with  roses,  bear  to  Zion  ; 
Go,  as  past  a  pleasant  meadow 
Through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  ; 
Take  her  softly,  holy  angels, 
Past  the  ranks  of  God's  evangels, 
Past  the  saints  and  martyrs  holy, 
To  the  Earth-born,  meek  and  lowly ; 
We  would  have  our  precious  blossom 
Softly  laid  in  Jesus'  bosom. 


THE    OUTCAST. 

SHE  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
And  brother  nor  sister,  lover  nor  friend, 
Came  not  near  her  their  aid  to  lend, 

Ere  the  spirit  took  its  flight. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
Food  and  raiment  she  had  no  more, 
And  the  fire  had  died  on  the  hearth  before, 

'T  was  a  pitiful,  pitiful  sight. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
No  napkin  pressed  back  the  parted  lips  ; 
No  weeper,  watching  the  eyes'  eclipse, 

Covered  them  up  from  sight. 


THE    OUTCAST. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
And  there  was  no  taper  beside  the  dead, 
But  the  stars,  through  the  broken  roof  overhead, 

Shone  with  a  solemn  light. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
And  the  winter  snow  spread  a  winding-sheet 
Over  the  body  from  head  to  feet, 

Dainty,  and  soft,  and  white. 

She  died  at  the  middle  of  night : 
But  if  she  heard,  ere  her  hour  was  o'er, 
"  I  have  not  condemned  thee,  —  sin  no  more," 

She  lives  where  the  day  is  bright. 


10 


THE    LIFE    OF    TRIAL. 

I  AM  glad  her  life  is  over, 

Glad  that  all  her  trials  are  past ; 

For  her  pillow  was  not  softened 
Down  with  roses  to  the  last. 

When  sharp  thorns  choked  up  the  pathway 
Where  she  wandered  sad  and  worn, 

Never  kind  hand  pressed  them  backward, 
So  her  feet  were  pierced  and  torn. 

And  when  life's  stern  course  of  duty 
Through  the  fiery  furnace  ran, 

Never  saw  she  one  beside  her, 
Like  unto  the  Son  of  Man. 


THE    LIFE    OF    TRIAL.  11 

Ere  the  holy  dew  of  baptism 

Cooled  her  aching  forehead's  heat, 

Heaviest  waters  of  affliction 

Many  times  had  touched  her  feet. 

Long  for  her  deliverance  waiting, 

Clung  she  to  the  cross  in  vain  ; 
With  an  agonizing  birth-cry 

Was  her  spirit  born  again. 

And  her  path  grew  always  rougher, 
Wearier,  wearier,  still  she  trod, 

Till,  through  gates  of  awful  anguish, 
She  went  in  at  last  to  God  ! 


12 


DEATH    OF    A    FRIEND. 

WHERE  leaves  by  bitter  winds  are  heaped 
In  the  deep  hollows,  damp  and  cold, 

And  the  light  snow-shower,  silently, 
Is  falling  on  the  yellow  mould, 

Sleeps  one  who  was  our  friend,  below  ;  — 
With  meek  hands  folded  on  her  breast, 

When  the  first  flowers  of  summer  died, 
We  softly  laid  her  down  to  rest. 

By  her  were  blessings  freely  strewn, 
As  roses  by  the  summer's  breath  ; 

Yet  nothing  in  her  perfect  life 
Was  half  so  lovely  as  her  death. 


DEATH    OF   A    FRIEND.  13 

In  the  meek  beauty  of  a  faith 

Which  few  have  ever  proved  like  h6r, 

She  shrunk  not  even  when  she  felt 
The  chill  breath  of  the  sepulchre. 

Heavier,  and  heavier  still,  she  leaned 

Upon  His  arm  who  died  to  save, 
As  step  by  step  he  led  her  down 

To  the  still  chamber  of  the  grave. 

'T  was  at  the  midnight's  solemn  watch 
She  sunk  to  slumber,  calm  and  deep  : 

The  golden  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Shall  never  wake  her  from  that  sleep. 

From  him  who  was  her  friend  below, 

She  turned  to  meet  her  Heavenly  Guide  ; 

And  the  sweet  children  of  her  love, 
She  left  them  sleeping  when  she  died. 

Her  last  of  suns  went  calmly  down, 

And  when  the  morn  rose  bright  and  clear, 

Hers  was  a  holier  Sabbath-day 

Than  that  which  dawned  upon  us  here. 


14 


CHALMERS. 

As  the  red  lights  down  in  the  water, 
When  a  boat  shoots  into  the  sea, 

Or  a  star  through  the  thin  blue  ether, 
He  vanished  silently. 

Not  the  counsel  of  ghostly  fathers 
Showed  him  the  way  he  trod, 

Not  the  picture  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
Nor  the  smile  of  the  Mother  of  God. 

Not  the  love-lighted  brows  of  kindred, 
Nor  the  words  of  a  faithful  friend, 

Opened  up  the  way  to  his  vision, 
And  cheered  him  to  the  end. 


CHALMERS.  15 

As  a  God-fearing  man,  and  holy, 

He  had  passed  through  the  snares  beneath, 
And  he  needed  no  aid  to  strengthen 

His  soul  in  the  hour  of  death. 

The  steps  of  his  faith  were  planted 
Where  the  waves  in  vain  might  beat, 

While  the  waters  of  death  rose  darkly, 
And  closed  around  his  feet. 

Not  the  "  Save,  or  I  perish  !  "  of  Peter, 

Was  his,  as  he  faintly  trod, 
But  the  trust  of  that  first  blest  martyr, 

Falling  asleep  in  God. 


16 


CHANGES. 

UNDER  the  evening  splendor 
Of  spring's  sweet  skies, 

Learned  I  love's  lesson  tender, 
From  the  maiden's  eyes. 

When  the  stars,  like  lovers  meeting, 

In  the  blue  appeared, 
And  my  heart,  tumultuous  beating, 

Hoped  and  feared,  — 

Then  the  passion,  long  dissembled, 

My  lip  made  known, 
And  the  hand  of  the  maiden  trembled 

In  my  own,  — 


CHANGES.  17 

Till  the  tears  that  gushed  unbidden, 

Unrepressed, 
And  the  crimson  blush,  were  hidden 

On  my  breast. 

And  there  in  that  vale  elysian, 

Through  the  summer  bland, 
We  walked  in  a  tranced  vision, 

Hand  in  hand. 

There  the  evening  shadows  found  us 

Side  by  side, 
While  the  glorious  roses  round  us 

Bloomed  and  died. 

And  when  the  bright  sun,  waning, 

Dimly  burned, — 
When  the  wind,  with  sad  complaining, 

In  the  valley  mourned,  — 

When  the  bridal  roses  faded 

In  her  hair, 
And  her  brow  was  sweetly  shaded 

With  a  thought  of  care,  — 
2 


18  CHANGES. 

Then  with  heart  still  fondly  thrilling, 

But  with  calmer  bliss, 
From  the  lip  no  more  unwilling 

I  claimed  the  kiss. 

Then  our  dreams,  with  love  o'erladen, 

Were  verified, 
And  dearer  to  me  than  the  maiden 

Grew  the  bride. 

But  when  the  dead  leaves  drifted 

In  that  valley  low, 
And  down  from  the  cold  sky  sifted 

The  noiseless  snow,  — 

Where  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  moulder 

With  the  dead, 
They  made  her  a  pillow  colder 

Than  the  bridal  bed. 

And  there  at  the  spring's  returning, 
With  the  summer's  glow, 

When  the  autumn's  sun  is  burning, 
In  the  winter's  snow,  — 


CHANGES.  19 

With  the  ghosts  of  the  dim  past  ever 

Gliding  round, 
Walk  I  in  that  vale,  as  a  river 

That  makes  no  sound. 


20 


DEATH    SCENE. 

DYING,  still  slowly  dying, 

As  the  hours  of  night  wore  by, 

She  had  lain  since  the  light  of  sunset 
Was  red  on  the  evening  sky,  — 

Till  after  the  middle  watches, 
As  we  softly  near  her  trod, 

When  her  soul  from  its  prison  fetters 
Was  loosed  by  the  hand  of  God. 

One  moment  her  pale  lips  trembled 
With  the  triumph  she  might  not  tell, 

As  the  light  of  the  life  immortal 
On  her  spirit's  vision  fell. 


DEATH   SCENE.  21 

Then  the  look  of  rapture  faded, 

And  the  beautiful  smile  waxed  faint, 

As  that  in  some  convent  picture 
On  the  face  of  a  dying  saint. 

And  we  felt  in  the  lonesome  midnight, 

As  we  sat  by  the  silent  dead, 
What  a  light  on  the  path  going  downward 

The  steps  of  the  righteous  shed  ;  — 

When  we  thought  how  with  feet  unshrinking 

She  came  to  the  Jordan's  tide, 
And,  taking  the  hand  of  the  Saviour, 

Went  up  on  the  heavenly  side  ! 


22 


OUR    FRIEND. 

WE  tried  to  win  her  from  her  grief, 
To  soothe  her  great  despair ; 

We  showed  her  how  the  starry  flowers 
Were  growing  everywhere,  — 

The  starry  flowers  she  used  to  braid 
At  evening  in  her  hair. 

We  told  her  how  our  hearts,  for  her, 

Beat  mournfully  and  low  ; 
How  lines  were  deepening,  day  by  day, 

Across  her  father's  brow  ; 
And  how  her  little  brother  drooped,  — 

He  had  no  playmate  now. 


OUR   FRIEND.  23 

And  then  she  spoke  of  weary  nights 

Of  dull  and  sleepless  pain, 
And  how  she  grieved  that  loving  friends 

Should  plead  with  her  in  vain  ; 
And  hoped  that  when  the  summer  came 

She  should  be  well  again. 

Still  softly  singing  to  herself 

Sad  words  of  plaintive  rhyme, 
She  always  watched  the  sun's  soft  glow 

Fade  off  at  eventime, 
As  one  who  nursed  a  pleasant  dream 

Of  some  delicious  clime. 

Thus,  sweetly  as  the  flowers  that  once 

She  wore  at  eventide, 
Faded  and  drooped  the  gentle  girl, 

A  blossom  by  our  side, 
And  her  young  light  of  life  went  out 

With  sunset,  when  she  died  ! 


24 


THE    CONVICT'S    CHILD. 

UNLOCK  the  still  home  of  the  dead  ; 

Down  to  its  slumber  we  would  lay 
One,  who,  with  firm,  unshrinking  tread, 

Drew  near  and  nearer  day  by  day. 

For  when  the  morn  of  life  for  her 
Hid  all  its  beautiful  light  in  tears, 

The  shadow  of  the  sepulchre 

Woke  in  her  soul  no  human  fears. 

Even  in  the  spring-time  of  her  youth, 
Before  that  she  had  wept  or  striven, 

With  all  its  wealth  of  love  and  truth, 
She  gave  her  young  heart  up  to  heaven. 


Something  prophetic  of  her  doom 

Before  her  vision  sadly  rose  ; 
So,  ere  the  evil  days  had  come, 

She  gathered  strength  to  meet  their  woes. 

Child  of  a  lost  and  guilty  sire, 

She  felt,  what  time  must  darkly  prove, 
That  home  and  hearth  were  not  for  her, 

Nor  the  sweet  ministries  of  love. 

And  when  her  trembling  heart  at  last 
By  maiden  hopes  and  fears  was  thrilled, 

Clasping  the  sacred  cross  more  fast, 
That  pleading  for  the  earth  was  stilled. 

•  Turning  from  eyes  whose  tender  ray 

Burned  with  affection  true  and  deep, 
Love's  passionate  kisses  never  lay    , 
Upon  her  forehead  but  in  sleep. 

Yet  more  than  mortal  may  be  tried 
Was  she  who  firmly  bore  that  part, 

And  the  meek  martyr  slowly  died 
In  crushing  down  the  human  heart. 


THE  CONVICT'S  CHILD. 

Pitying  in  such  a  world  of  storms 
The  woes  of  that  unsheltered  breast, 

Death  kindly  took  her  in  his  arms, 
And  rocked  her  to  eternal  rest. 

Then  softly,  softly,  down  to  sleep, 

Lay  her  where  these  white  blossoms  grow, 

And  where  the  Sabbath  silence  deep 
Is  broken  by  no  sound  of  woe  ;  — 

Where  near  her,  the  long  summer  through, 
Will  sing  this  gently  lulling  stream  ; 

'T  is  the  first  rest  she  ever  knew, 
Haunted  by  no  unquiet  dream. 


27 


AT    THE    WATER'S    EDGE 

THERE  are  little  innocent  ones, 
And  their  love  is  wondrous  strong, 

Clinging  about  her  neck, 

But  they  may  not  keep  her  long. 

Father !  give  her  strength 
To  loosen  their  grasp  apart, 

And  to  fold  her  empty  hands 
Calmly  over  her  heart. 

And  if  the  mists  of  doubt 

Fearfully  rise  and  climb 
Up  from  that  river  that  rolls 

Close  by  the  shore  of  time,  — 


28  AT  THE  WATER'S  EDGE. 

Suddenly  rend  it  away, 

Holy  and  Merciful  One  ! 
As  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent, 

When  the  mission  of  Christ  was  done. 

So  she  can  see  the  clime 

Where  the  jasper  walls  begin, 

And  the  pearl  gates,  half  unclosed, 
Ready  to  shut  her  in. 

So  she  can  see  the  saints, 

As  they  beckon  with  shining  hand, 

Leaning  over  the  towers, 
Waiting  to  see  her  land. 

Saviour !  we  wait  thy  aid, 

For  our  human  aid  were  vain ; 

\Ve  have  gone  to  the  water's  edge, 
And  must  turn  to  the  world  again. 

For  she  stands  where  the  waves  of  death 

Fearfully  surge  and  beat, 
And  the  rock  of  the  shore  of  life 

Is  shelving  under  her  feet. 


29 


DEAD. 

DEAD  !  yet  there  comes  no  shriek,  no  tear, — 

My  agony  is  dumb  ; 
I  've  thought,  and  feared,  and  known  so  long 

That  such  an  hour  must  come  : 

For  when  her  once  sweet  household  cares 

Grew  wearier  every  day, 
And,  dropping  from  her  listless  hand, 

Her  work  was  put  away, 

I  knew  that  all  her  tasks  were  done, 
And,  though  I  wept  and  prayed, 

I  always  thought  of  her  as  one 
For  whom  the  shroud  is  made. 


30  DEAD. 

She  talked  of  growing  strong  and  well, 

To  soothe  our  parting  pain  : 
I  knew  it  would  be  well  with  her 

Before  we  met  again  ;  — 

I  knew  upon  that  lonesome  hill, 

Where  winter  now  is  drear, 
They  'd  have  to  make  another  grave. 

Before  another  year. 

I  hope  that  they  will  dig  it  there : 

I  would  not  have  it  made 
Between  the  graves  where  strangers  sleep, 

Under  the  cypress  shade. 

I  M  have  it  where  our  sisters  gone 

Are  sleeping  side  by  side, 
And  where  we  weeping  orphans  laid 

Our  mother  when  she  died. 

There,  too,  with  beauty  scarcely  dimmed, 

And  curls  of  shining  gold, 
We  covered  little  Ellie's  face, 

And  hid  it  in  the  mould. 


DEAD.  31 

So  bring  her  there,  and  when  they  rise 

Who  in  the  dust  have  lain, 
She  '11  see  her  little  baby  wake, 

And  take  him  up  again. 


THE    WATCHER'S    STORY. 

SHE  has  slept  since  first  the  firelight 

Mingled  with  the  sun's  last  ray,  — 
If  she  lives  till  after  midnight 

She  may  see  another  day  ;  — 
Though  she  then  could  only  number 

A  few  weary  hours,  at  best, 
And  't  were  better  if  her  slumber 

Could  be  deepened  into  rest. 

When  about  my  neck,  all  night  through, 
White  arms,  softly  dimpled,  lay, 

Then  her  face  had  not  a  shadow 
That  I  could  not  kiss  away  : 


33 


And  I  knew  the  simple  measure 

Of  her  little  hopes  and  fears, 
Shared  in  all  her  childish  pleasure, 

Pitied  all  her  childish  fears. 
But  the  maiden's  deeper  yearning 

Taught  her  maidenhood's  disguise, 
When  a  tenderer  light  came  burning 

In  the  soft  depths  of  her  eyes. 
Then  she  wandered  down  the  meadows, 

Like  some  restless  woodland  elf, 
Or  sat  hidden  deep  in  shadows, 

Singing  softly  to  herself, 
Or  repeated  dreams  elysian 

From  some  poet's  touching  strain, 
As  some  vague  and  nameless  vision 

Were  half-formed  within  the  brain. 
I  had  counselled,  led,  reproved  her, — • 

Now  the  time  for  these  was  o'er ; 
From  a  baby  I  had  loved  her, 

She  could  be  a  child  no  more. 

Then  she  grew  a  listless  weeper, 
Scarce  her  lip  might  lightly  speak, 

And  the  crimson  glow  was  deeper 
In  the  white  snow  of  her  cheek. 
3 


34  THE  WATCHER'S  STORY. 

And  sometimes,  at  midnight  waking, 

I  have  heard  her  bitter  sighs, 
And  have  seen  the  tear-drops  breaking 

Through  the  closed  lids  of  her  eyes. 
Sometimes,  like  a  shaken  blossom, 

Moved  her  heart  with  visions  sweet ; 
With  my  hand  upon  her  bosom, 

I  could  feel  it  beat,  and  beat. 
While  her  young  face  down  the  meadows 

Kept  in  childhood's  pleasant  track, 
I  could  kiss  off  all  the  shadows, 

Other  lips  had  kissed  them  back  ! 
Oftener  then  the  tear-dews  pearly 

Dropped  upon  her  soft  white  cheek, 
Sorrow  came  to  her  so  early, 

And  her  womanhood  was  weak. 
Life  grew  weary,  very  weary  : 

I  had  trembled,  knowing  well 
Evermore  it  must  be  dreary, 

When  the  first  great  shadow  fell. 
It  had  fallen,  —  the  old,  sad  story, 

Hope  deferred,  and  wearying  doubt ; 
From  her  youth's  first  crown  of  glory 
All  the  roses  had  dropped  out. 


THE  WATCHER'S  STORY.  35 

Once,  when  husbandmen  were  bearing 

To  their  barns  the  ripened  ear, 
And  that  sorrow  had  been  wearing 

On  her  mortal  life  a  year ; 
As  she  sat  with  me  at  evening, 

Looking  earnestly  without, 
Still  half  hopeful,  and  half  yielding 

To  the  bitterness  of  doubt ; 
Anxiously  towards  me  leaning, 

Breaking  off  a  lonesome  tune, 
She  asked,  with  deepest  meaning, 

If  the  year  had  worn  to  June. 
Said  I,  roses  lately  blooming 

Have  all  faded  from  their  prime  ; 
And  she  answered,  He  is  coming  ! 

'T  is  the  season,  't  is  the  time ! 

Then  she  looked  adown  the  valley 

Towards  the  pleasant  fields  in  sight, 
Where  the  wheat  was  hanging  heavy 

And  the  rye  was  growing  white  ; 
And  she  said,  with  full  heart  beating, 

And  with  earnest,  trembling  tone, 
"  If  to-night  should  be  our  meeting, 

Let  me  see  him  first  alone." 


36  THE  WATCHER'S  STORY. 

So  with  trust  still  unabated, 

With  affection  deep  and  true, 
She  watched,  and  hoped,  and  waited, 

All  the  lonesome  summer  through, 
Till  the  autumn  wind  blew  dreary  ; 

Then  she  almost  ceased  to  smile, 
And  her  spirit  grew  more  weary 

Of  its  burden  all  the  while. 
I  remember  well  of  sharing 

The  last  watch  she  ever  kept, 
Till  she  turned  away  despairing, 

Saying  sadly  while  she  wept :  — 

"  Shut  the  window  !  when  't  is  lifted 

I  can  feel  the  cheerless  rain, 
And  the  yellow  leaves  are  drifted 

O'er  me, 'through  the  open  pane. 
Heavy  shadows,  creeping  nighcr, 

Darken  over  all  the  walk  : 
Let  us  sit  beside  the  fire, 

Where  we  used  to  sit  and  talk. 
Close  the  shutter,  through  the  gloaming 

My  poor  eyes  can  see  no  more, 
And  if  any  one  is  coming 

I  shall  hear  them  at  the  door. 


THE  WATCHER'S  STORY.  37 

O  my  friend,  but  speak,  and  cheer  me,  — 

Speak  until  my  heart  grow  light ; 
What  if  he  were  very  near  me,  — 

What  if  he  should  come  to  night ! 
It  might  be  so,  —  ere  the  morrow 

He  might  sit  there  where  thou  art, 
And  the  weight  of  all  this  sorrow 

Be  uplifted  from  my  heart. 
Idle,  idle,  long  endurance 

Changes  hope  to  fear  and  doubt, 
Saying  oft  a  sweet  assurance 

Almost  wears  its  meaning  out. 
O,  my  thoughts  are  foolish  dreaming, 

Fancies  of  a  troubled  brain, 
Very  like  the  truth  in  seeming  ; 

But  he  will  not  come  again. 
Never  will  his  hand  caress  me, 

Pushing  back  this  faded  hair, 
Never  whisper  soft,  «  God  bless  thee  ! ' 

Half  in  fondness,  half  in  prayer. 
Well,  if  he  were  standing  near  me, 

Close  as  thou  hast  stood  to-day, 
Could  I  make  the  Father  hear  me, 

Could  I  turn  from  him  to  pray  ? 


38  THE  WATCHER'S  STORY. 

0  my  friend,  whose  soul  was  never 

On  such  waves  of  passion  tost, 
Plead  for  Heaven's  sweet  mercy  ever, 

That  I  be  not  wholly  lost ! 
Talk  to  me  of  peaceful  bosoms, 

Never  touched  by  mortal  ills  ; 
Talk  of  beds  of  fragrant  blossoms, 

Whitening  all  the  fadeless  hills. 
Promises  of  sweet  Evangels, 

Blessed  hope  of  life  above, 
O  eternity,  O  angels  ! 

Turn  my  thoughts  from  human  love  ! " 


39 


RESOLVES. 

I  HAVE  said  I  would  not  meet  him  ; 

Have  I  said  the  words  in  vain  ? 
Sunset  burns  along  the  hill-tops, 

And  I  'm  waiting  here  again. 
But  my  promise  is  not  broken, 

Though  I  stand  where  once  we  met ; 
When  I  hear  his  coming  footsteps, 

I  can  fly  him  even  yet. 

We  have  stood  here  oft,  when  evening 
Deepened  slowly  o'er  the  plain  ; 

But  I  must  not,  dare  not,  meet  him 
In  the  shadows  here  again  ; 


40  RESOLVES. 

For  I  could  not  turn  away  and  leave 
That  pleading  look  and  tone, 

And  the  sorrow  of  his  parting 
Would  be  bitter  as  my  own. 

In  the  dim  and  distant  ether 

The  first  star  is  shining  through, 
And  another  and  another 

Tremble  softly  in  the  blue  : 
Should  I  linger  but  one  moment 

In  the  shadows  where  I  stand, 
I  shall  see  the  vine-leaves  parted, 

With  a  quick,  impatient  hand. 

But  I  will  not  wait  his  coming  ! 

He  will  surely  come  once  more ; 
Though  I  said  I  would  not  meet  him, 

I  have  told  him  so  before  ; 
And  he  knows  the  stars  of  evening 

See  me  standing  here  again, — 
O,  he  surely  will  not  leave  me 

Now  to  watch  and  wait  in  vain ! 

'T  is  the  hour,  the  time  of  meeting ! 
In  one  moment  't  will  be  past ; 


RESOLVES. 


41 


And  last  night  he  stood  beside  me,  — 
Was  that  blessed  time  the  last  ? 

I  could  better  bear  my  sorrow, 
Could  I  live  that  parting  o'er ; 

O,  I  wish  I  had  not  told  him 

That  I  would  not  come  once  more  ! 

Could  that 'have  been  the  night-wind 

Moved  the  branches  thus  apart  ? 
Did  I  hear  a  coming  footstep, 

Or  the  beating  of  my  heart  ? 
No !  I  hear  him,  I  can  see  him, 

And  my  weak  resolves  are  vain  ; 
I  will  fly,  —  but  to  his  bosom, 

And  to  leave  it  not  again ! 


42 


DREAMS. 

WHATEVER  before  my  sight  appears, 
One  vision  in  my  heart  is  borne,  — 

Two  sweet,  sad  faces,  wet  with  tears, 

Seen  through  the  dim,  gray  light  of  morn. 

And,  half  overshadowing  them,  arise 

Thoughts,  which  are  never  lulled  to  sleep, 

Of  one,  whose  calm,  rebuking  eyes 
Are  sadder  that  they  do  not  weep. 

O  friend,  whose  lot  it  might  not  be 
To  tread,  with  me,  life's  path  of  ills ! 

O  friend,  who  yet  shalt  walk  with  me 
The  white  path  of  the  eternal  hills  ! 


DREAMS. 


43 


Gone  are  the  moments  when  we  planned 
Those  sweet,  but  unsubstantial  bowers, 

In  some  unknown  and  pleasant  land, 

Where  all  our  future  wound  through  flowers. 

Into  the  past  eternity 

Have  faded  all  those  hopes  and  schemes ; 
That  summer  island  in  the  sea 

Slept  only  in  our  sea  of  dreams. 

I  know  not  if  our  hope  was  sin, 

When  that  fair  structure  was  upbuilt ; 

But  this  I  know,  that  mine  has  been 
The  bitterest  recompense  of  guilt. 

And  the  wild  tempest  of  despair 
Still  sweeps  my  spirit  like  a  blast ; 

Tears,  penance,  agonizing  prayer,  — 
Could  you  not  save  me  from  the  past ! 


44 


PROPHECIES. 

AN  urn  within  her  clasped  hands, 

Brimful  and  running  o'er  with  dew, 
Spring  on  the  green  hills  smiling  stands, 
Or  walks  in  pleasant  valley-lands, 

Through  sprouting  grass  and  violets  blue. 
And  but  this  morn,  almost  before 

The  sunshine  came  its  leaves  to  gild, 
In  the  old  elm  that  shades  our  door, 

There  came  a  timid  bird  to  build. 

O  time  of  flowers  !  O  time  of  song  ! 

How  does  my  heart  rejoice  again ! 
For  pleasant  things  to  thee  belong ; 
And  desolate,  and  drear,  and  long, 

To  me  was  Winter's  lonesome  reign  : 


PROPHECIES.  45 

Since  last  thou  trodd'st  the  vale  and  hill, 

And  nature  with  delight  was  rife, 
A  shadow  strange,  and  dark,  and  chill, 

Has  hung  above  my  house  of  life. 

But  now  I  see  its  blackness  drift 

Away,  away,  from  out  my  sky  ; 
And,  as  its  heavy  folds  uplift, 
There  shines  upon  me,  through  the  rift, 

A  burning  star  of  prophecy  : 
My  heart  is  singing  with  the  birds, 

Life's  orb  has  passed  from  its  eclipse  ; 
And  some  sweet  poet's  hopeful  words 

Are  always,  always,  on  my  lips. 

0  thou  who  lov'st  me !  O  my  friend  ! 

Whate'er  thy  fears,  where'er  thou  art, 
As  these  soft  skies  above  thee  bend, 
Does  not  their  pleasant  sunshine  lend 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  to  thy  heart  ? 
Sweet  prophecies  through  all  the  day 

Within  my  bosom  softly  thrill, 
And,  while  the  night-time  wears  away, 

My  sleep  with  pleasant  visions  fill. 


46  PROPHECIES. 

And  I  must  whisper  unto  thee, 

Thou,  who  hast  waited  long  in  vain  ; 
Though  distant  still  the  day  may  be, 
It  shall  be  in  our  destiny 

To  tread  the  selfsame  path  again  ; 
And  over  hills,  with  blossoms  white, 

Or  lingering  by  the  singing  streams, 
That  path  shall  wander  on  in  light, 

And  life  be  happier  than  our  dreams  ! 


47 


THE    CONFESSION. 

IN  the  moonlight  of  the  Spring-time, 
Trembling,  blushing,  half  afraid, 

Heard  I  first  the  fond  confession 
From  the  sweet  lips  of  the  maid. 

As  the  roses  of  the  Summer, 
By  his  warm  embraces  won, 

Take  a  fairer,  richer  color 

From  the  glances  of  the  sun  ;  — 

So  as,  gazing,  earnest,  anxious, 
I  besought  her  but  to  speak, 

Deep  and  deeper  burned  the  crimson 
Of  the  blushes  in  her  cheek  ;  — 


48  THE    CONFESSION. 

Till  at  last,  with  happy  impulse, 
Impulse  that  she  might  not  check, 

As  it  softly  thrilled  and  trembled, 
Stole  her  white  arm  round  my  neck  ; 

And  with  lips,  that,  half  averted 
From  the  lips  that  bent  above, 

Met  the  kiss  of  our  betrothal, 
Told  the  maiden  of  her  love. 


49 


THE    POEM. 

I  AM  dreaming  o'er  a  poem 

Of  affection's  strength  sublime  ; 

Loved,  because  that  once  I  read  it 
In  the  dear,  dear  olden  time, 

While  you  sat  and  praised  my  reading 
Of  the  poet's  touching  rhyme. 

And  how  often,  very  gently, 

Did  you  check  my  cadence,  when 

I  read  the  sweetest  verses 
Over  to  you  once  again  ! 

I  have  read  that  blessed  poem 
Many,  many  times  since  then  ! 
4 


50  THE    POEM. 

Then  you  softly  closed  the  volume, 
When  I  paused  at  the  last  line, 

While  your  eyes  said  sweeter  poems, 
Poems  that  were  more  divine  ; 

And  all  Hybla  sweets  were  clustered 
On  the  lips  that  dropped  to  mine. 

This  is  over  now,  all  over,  — 
And  't  is  better  thus  to  be  ; 

Yet  I  often  sit  and  wonder 
Who  is  reading  soft  to  thee, 

And  if  any  voice  is  sweeter 
To  thy  heart  than  mine  would  be  ! 


51 


TO  ONE  WHO  SANG  OF  LOVE. 

THOU  hast  sung  of  Ipve's  confession 

Out  beneath  the  starry  skies, 
Of  the  rapture  of  the  moment 

When  the  soul  is  breathed  in  sighs, 
And  the  maiden's  trembling  transport 

As  she  blushingly  replies 
To  the  worship  of  a  lover, 

Breathed  from  speaking  lips  and  eyes. 

By  the  earnest,  tender  pathos 

Of  thy  every  witching  line, 
Such  an  hour  of  bliss  ecstatic 

Has  surely  once  been  thine  : 


52  TO    ONE    WHO    SANG    OF    LOVE. 

And  I  would  that  Heaven  might  answer 
This  earnest  wish  of  mine, 

That  thy  star  of  love  and  beauty 
May  wane  not,  nor  decline. 

Listening  to  the  first  confession, 

Lingering  o'er  the  first  fond  kiss, — 
What  an  age  of  bliss  is  crowded 

In  an  hour  of  life  like  this  ! 
Surely  thine  at  such  a  moment 

Has  been  perfect  happiness, 
And  the  maiden,  the  fond  maiden, 

O,  I  cannot  guess  her  bliss  ! 

Sometimes  to  my  heart  in  slumber 

Thought  so  like  the  truth  will  steal, 
That  the  pressure  of  sweet  kisses 

On  my  brow  I  almost  feel  ; 
And  I  dream  fond  lips  have  uttered 

What  they  might  no  more  conceal ; 
But  I  cannot,  no,  I  cannot, 

Make  such  blessed  visions  real. 


53 


ARCHIE. 

0  TO  be  back  in  the  beautiful  shadow 
Of  that  old  maple-tree  down  in  the  meadow, 
Watching  the  smiles  that  grew  dearer  and  dearer, 
Listening  to  lips  that  drew  nearer  and  nearer ! 
0  to  be  back  in  the  crimson-topped  clover, 
Sitting  again  with  my  Archie,  my  lover ! 

0  for  the  time  when  I  felt  his  caresses 
Smoothing  away  from  my  forehead  the  tresses, 
When  up  from  my  heart  to  my  cheek  went  the  blushes, 
As  he  said  that  my  voice  was  as  sweet  as  the  thrush's,  — 
When  he  said  that  my  eyes  were  bewitchingly  jetty, 
And  I  told  him  't  was  only  my  love  made  them  pretty. 


54  ARCHIE. 

Talk  not  of  maiden  reserve  and  of  duty, 

Or  hide  from  my  vision  such  wonderful  beauty ; 

Pulses  above  may  beat  calmly  and  even, — 

We  have  been  fashioned  for  earth,  and  not  heaven ; 

Angels  are  perfect,  —  I  am  but  a  woman  ; 

Saints  may  be  passionless,  —Archie  is  human. 

Talk  not  of  heavenly,  down-dropping  blisses,  — 
Can  they  fall  on  the  brow  like  the  rain  of  soft  kisses  ? 
Preach  not  the  promise  of  priests  and  evangels, — 
Love-crowned,  I  ask  not  the  crown  of  the  angels  ; 
All  that  the  wall  of  pure  jasper  incloses 
Makes  not  less  lovely  the  white  bridal  roses. 

Tell  me,  that,  when  alt  this  life  shall  be  over, 

I  shall  still  love  him,  and  he  be  my  lover, — 

That  in  meadows  far  sweeter  than  clover  or  heather 

My  Archie  and  I  shall  sit  always  together, 

Loving  eternally,  wed  ne'er  to  sever, — 

Then  you^may  tell  me  of  heaven  for  ever  ! 


55 


MAIDEN    FEARS. 

HE  knows  that  I  love  him  ; 

O,  how  could  he  tell 
What  I  thought  I  would  keep 

In  my  bosom  so  well, 
By  guarding  each  action, 

Each  word,  I  might  say  ! 
Yet  he  knows  that  I  love  him,- 

O,  woe  to  the  day  ! 

To  hide  it  I  tried 

By  each  innocent  art, 

And  I  thought  I  had  kept  it 
Down  deep  in  my  heart : 


56  MAIDEN    FEARS. 

Yet  vain  was  my  effort, 
My  pride  through  the  past, 

Since  my  weakness,  my  folly, 
Have  shown  it  at  last. 

'T  was  last  night  that  he  learned  it, 

When  down  in  the  grove 
He  whispered  me  something 

Of  hope  and  of  love  ; 
'T  was  not  that  I  faltered, 

I  dared  not  to  speak, — 
But  the  blood  mounted  up 

From  my  heart  to  my  cheek. 

Not  mine  was  the  fault 

That  such  weakness  was  shown,  - 
O,  he  should  not  have  kissed  me 

By  starlight  alone  ! 
And  I  thought,  till  I  saw 

How  he  guessed  at  my  love, 
I  thought  that  the  shadows 

Were  deeper  above  ! 

Nay,  thou  canst  not  console  me, 
My  hopes  are  undone  ; 


MAIDEN    FEARS.  57 

He  will  say  that  too  lightly 

My  heart  has  been  won  ; 
And  this  spot  on  my  forehead 

For  ever  will  burn, 
For  he  knows  that  I  love  him,  — 

He  will  not  return  ! 

He  will  say  't  was  unmaidly 

Thus  to  reveal 
What  I  might  not,  I  could  not, 

That  moment  conceal ; 
And  the  heart  he  has  won 

Will  cast  lightly  aside  ;  — 
O,  I  would,  ere  he  knew  it, 

I  would  I  had  died  ! 

O  thou  who  hast  never 

Been  faithless  to  me, 
Crushed,  bleeding,  and  broken, 

My  heart  turns  to  thee  : 
Friend,  counsellor,  sister, 

Through  all  things  the  same, 
Let  me  hide  in  thy  bosom 

My  blushes  of  shame  ! 


58 


THE    UNGUARDED    MOMENT. 

YES,  my  lips  to-night  have  spoken 
Words  I  said  they  should  not  speak ; 

And  I  would  I  could  recall  them, — 
Would  I  had  not  been  so  weak. 

0  that  one  unguarded  moment ! 
Were  it  mine  to  live  again, 

All  the  strength  of  its  temptation 
Would  appeal  to  me  in  vain. 

True,  my  lips  have  only  uttered 
What  is  ever  in  my  heart : 

1  am  happy  when  beside  him, 

Wretched  when  we  are  apart ; 


THE   UNGUARDED    MOMENT.  59 

Though  I  listen  to  his  praises, 

Always  longer  than  I  should, 
Yet  my  heart  can  never  hear  them 

Half  so  often  as  it  would  ! 

And  I  would  not,  could  not,  pain  him, 

Would  not  for  the  world  offend,  — 
I  would  have  him  know  I  like  him, 

As  a  brother,  as  a  friend ; 
But  I  meant  to  keep  one  secret 

In  my  bosom  always  hid, 
For  I  never  meant  to  tell  him 

That  I  loved  him,  —  but  I  did. 


60 


NELLY. 

I  'M  glad  you  "  don't  love  him," 

I  really  did  fear 
(Nay,  frown  not  so  terribly, 

Nelly,  my  dear)  ; 
His  voice  was  so  witching, 

His  eyes  were  so  bright, 
Though  you  did  not  yet  love  him, 

I  feared  that  you  might ! 

So  you  're  candid,  now,  Nelly, 
You  're  telling  me  true, 

"  His  voice  never  sounded 
Bewitching  to  you." 


NELLY.  61 

Yet  I  sometimes  have  thought, 

When  you  heard  his  soft  tone, 
That  a  little  more  tenderness 

Spoke  in  your  own. 

And  you  're  sure  you  don't  care,  now, 

My  dear  little  elf, 
"  Who  else  he  talks  love  to, 

So  't  is  not  yourself." 
Sometimes  when  your  forehead 

Such  crimson  would  take, 
I  suspected  —  no  matter, 

I  've  made  a  mistake. 

Nay,  do  not  now,  Nelly, 

O,  do  not  be  mad  ! 
Since  you  say  you  don't  love  him, 

It  makes  me  so  glad  ; 
Because  I  would  never 

Have  told  it,  you  see, 
But  honestly,  darling, 

He  's  talked  love  to  me  ! 

Are  you  glad  he  has  done 

What  you  wished  him  to  do,  — 


62  NELLY. 

That  he  talked  about  love 
To  another  than  you  ? 

Yes,  you  surely  must  feel 
Quite  a  sense  of  relief ;  — 

But  those  tears  are  not  joyous, 
That  sob  is  like  grief ! 

He  said  he  had  hidden  it 

Long  in  his  breast ;  — 
How  you  tremble  !  —  nay,  listen, 

I  '11  tell  you  the  rest. 
He  said,  just  as  true 

As  I  sit  here  alive, 
That  he  loved  you  dear  Nelly,  — 

Aha !  you  revive  ! 


63 


BURNING    THE    LETTERS 

I  SAID  that  they  were  valueless, — 

I  'd  rather  have  them  not,  — 
All  that  since  made  them  precious 

Was,  or  should  have  been,  forgot ; 
I  would  do  it  very  willingly, 

And  not  because  I  ought, — 
But  I  did  not,  somehow,  find  it 

Quite  so  easy  as  I  thought. 

One  was  full  of  pleasant  flattery,  — 

I  do  not  think  I  'm  vain, 
And  yet  I  paused  a  moment 

To  read  it  once  again. 


64  BURNING    THE    LETTERS. 

One  repeated  dear,  old  phrases 
I  had  heard  a  thousand  times ; 

I  had  read  him  once  some  verses, 
And  another  praised  my  rhymes. 

One  was  just  exactly  like  him,  — 

Such  a  pretty  little  note  ! 
One  was  interspersed  with  poetry 

That  lovers  always  quote. 
I  don't  know  why  I  read  them, 

Unless  't  was  just  to  know, 
Since  they  once  had  been  so  precious, 

What  had  ever  made  them  so. 

I  had  told  him  when  we  parted 

To  think  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  'm  sure  he  's  nothing  to  me, — 

Indeed,  why  should  he  be  ? 
Yet  the  flame  sunk  down  to  ashes, 

And  I  sat  and  held  them  still ; 
But  I  said  that  I  would  burn  them,  — 

And,  some  other  time,  I  will ! 


65 


A    LAMENT. 

ONCE  in  the  season  of  childhood's  joy, 
Dreaming  never  of  life's  great  ills, 

Hand  in  hand  with  a  happy  boy, 

I  walked  about  on  my  native  hills,  — 

Gathering  berries  ripe  and  fair, 

Pressing  them  oft  to  his  smiling  lip, 

Braiding  flowers  in  his  sunny  hair, 

And  letting  the  curls  through  my  fingers  slip, 

Watching  the  clouds  of  the  evening  pass 
Over  the  moon  in  her  home  of  blue ; 

Or  chasing  fireflies  over  the  grass, 

Till  our  feet  were  wet  with  the  summer  dew. 
5 


66  A    LAMENT. 

Now  I  walk  on  the  hills  alone, 
Dreaming  never  of  hope  or  joy, 

And  over  a  dungeon's  floor  of  stone 
Sweep  the  curls  of  that  happy  boy. 

And  every  night  when  a  rose-hedge  springs 
Up  from  the  ashes  of  sunset's  pyre, 

And  the  eve-star,  folding  her  golden  wings, 
Drops  like  a  bird  in  the  leaves  of  fire,  — 

I  sit  and  think  how  he  entered  in, 
And  farther  and  farther,  every  time, 

Followed  the  downward  way  of  sin, 
Till  it  led  to  the  awful  gates  of  crime. 

I  sit  and  think,  till  my  great  despair 
Rises  up  like  a  mighty  wave, 

How  fast  the  locks  of  my  father's  hair 
Are  whitening  now  for  the  quiet  grave. 

But  never  reproach  on  my  lip  has  been, 
Never  one  moment  can  I  forget, 

Though  bound  in  prison  and  lost  in  sin, 
My  brother  once  is  my  brother  yet. 


67 


THE    LULLABY. 

THROUGH  the  open  summer  lattice, 
Half  revealed  and  half  in  shade, 

Yesternight  I  saw  a  mortal 

Whose  remembrance  will  not  fade. 

Little  birds  their  heads  had  hidden 
Under  wings  of  gold  and  brown  ; 

Lily  bells  and  luscious  blossoms 
Softly  had  been  folded  down  ; 

Fountains,  with  their  quiet  dropping, 
Only  lulled  the  drowsy  bees ; 

And  the  wind  was  lightly  going 
In  and  out  the  tops  of  trees  ; 


68  THE    LULLABY. 

But  that  pale  and  restless  creature  — 
Had  she  dreamed  too  much  before  ?  — 

Seemed  as  one  whom  sleep  would  visit 
Never,  never,  never  more. 

Rocking  by  the  summer  lattice, 
Rocking  to  and  fro,  she  sung, 

O,  the  saddest,  saddest  music 
Ever  fell  from  mortal  tongue  ! 

So  she  strove  to  hush  the  crying, 
Bitterer  that  't  was  faint  and  low, 

Of  the  little  baby  pressing 

Close  against  her  heart  of  woe. 

And  her  words  were  very  mournful, 

And  so  very,  very  faint ; 
She  was  keeping  down  her  anguish, 

That  no  ear  might  hear  her  plaint. 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Go  to  sleep,  and  sleep  till  morn ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby ; 

Would  that  thou  hadst  not  been  born ! 


THE    LULLABY.  69 

"  Mock  me  not  with  open  eyelids, 

For  thine  eyes  are  soft  and  blue  ; 
While  in  mine  the  midnight  blackness 

Deepens,  looking  down  on  you. 

"  Time  shall  bind  about  your  forehead 

Sunny  hair  in  golden  bands  ; 
Tangle  not  my  raven  tresses 

With  your  soft  and  clinging  hands ! 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  : 

O,  how  long  the  watches  seem  ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Dream  and  smile,  and  smile  and  dream  ! 

"  O  the  sad  eyes  of  my  mother  ! 

O  my  brother,  proud  and  brave  ! 
O  the  white  hair  of  my  father, 

Drooping  sadly  toward  the  grave  ! 

"  O  my  sister,  pure  as  heaven, 

Here  thy  head  in  sleep  has  lain ! 
Never  on  this  wretched  bosom 

Canst  thou  pillow  it  again  ! 


70  THE    LULLABY. 

"  Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Live  I  only  for  thy  sake  ! 
Lullaby,  my  wretched  baby  ; 

Sleep,  and  dream,  and  never  wake  !  " 


71 


LEFT    ALONE. 

SHE  's  left  me  here  alone  again  : 

'T  will  be  a  weary  lot, 
Through  all  this  cheerless  winter  time 

To  live  where  she  is  not ; 
To  sit,  where  once  we  used  to  sit, 

With  smileless  lip  and  dumb  ; 
To  count  the  moments  since  she  went, 

And  know  not  when  she  '11  come  ! 

We  talked  through  all  the  summer  time, 
We  'd  talked  through  all  the  spring, 

Of  how  about  the  winter  hearth 
We  'd  make  a  pleasant  ring  ; 


LEFT   ALONE. 

Of  how  with  loving  words  and  looks 
The  time  should  all  be  sped  ;  — 

The  firelight's  glow  is  mournful  now, 
The  books  are  all  unread. 

We  never  were  together  long, 

We  have  not  been  so  blest ; 
I  might  have  known  this  hope  of  ours 

Would  perish  like  the  rest  : 
And  half  I  trembled  all  the  while, 

And  feared  it  would  be  so  ;  — 
The  hand  of  fate  would  press  me  back 

From  where  her  feet  must  go. 

If  there  shall  ever  be  a  time, 

When,  as  in  days  that  were, 
My  soul  can  whisper  all  its  dreams 

And  all  its  thoughts  to  her,  — 
When  I  can  share  her  heart's  sweet  hopes, 

Or  soothe  its  bitter  pain, — 
I  would  the  hours  were  past  till  then, 

And  that  were  come  again  ! 


73 


THE     RETROSPECT. 

As  one  who  sees  life's  hopes  have  end, 

And  cannot  hush  the  bitter  cry, 
Thou  weep'st  for  that  lost  vale,  my  friend, 

Where  childhood's  pleasant  places  lie  ; 
And  looking  down  the  sloping  track 

Where  now  our  lonesome  steps  are  told, 
Wouldst  softly  roll  the  seasons  back, 

And  leave  us  children  as  of  old. 

Nay,  weave  sweet  fancies  as  you  will, 
Yet  what  is  childish  happiness 

To  such  great  rapture  as  can  fill 

The  heart  of  womanhood  with  bliss  ? 


74  THE    RETROSPECT. 

And  though  the  trials  which  years  must  bring 
Have  come,  and  left  thee  what  thou  art, 

Think  what  a  great  and  wondrous  thing 
Is  victory  o'er  the  human  heart ! 

Life's  sparkling  wine  for  us  is  dim, 

Only  the  bitter  drops  remain  ; 
Yet,  for  the  brightness  on  the  brim, 

Who  would  not  drink  the  draught  of  pain  ? 
And  not  in  even  ways,  my  friend, 

Attains  the  soul  to  regions  higher  ; 
If  step  by  step  our  feet  ascend, 

Their  path  must  be  a  path  of  fire  ! 


75 


ONE    SHALL    BE    TAKEN. 

DEAR  friend,  whose  presence  always  made 

Even  the  dreariest  night-time  glad, — 
Whose  lengthening  absence  darkens  o'er 

The  little  sunshine  that  I  had, — 
My  heart  is  sad  for  thee  to-night, 

And  every  wretched  thought  of  mine 
Reaches  across  the  lonesome  hills, 

That  lie  between  my  home  and  thine. 

0  woods,  wherein  our  childish  feet, 

Gathering  the  summer  blossoms,  strayed  ! 

O  meadows,  white  with  clover-blooms  ! 
0  soft,  green  hollows,  where  we  played  ! 


76  ONE    SHALL    BE    TAKEN. 

Can  you  not  cool  that  aching  brow, 
With  all  your  shadows  and  your  dew  ; 

And  charm  the  slow  and  languid  step 
Back  to  the  joyous  life  it  knew  ? 

Most  loved,  most  cherished,  since  that  hour 

When,  as  she  blest  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 
Our  mother  put  thee  from  her  arms, 

To  feel  thy  kisses  never  more  ; 
And  I,  that  scarce  were  missed,  am  spared, 

While  o'er  thy  way  the  shadow  lies,  — 
Infinite  Mercy  surely  knew 

Thou  wert  the  fittest  for  the  skies  ! 


77 


THE    BROTHERS. 

WE  had  no  home,  we  only  had 

A  shelter  for  our  head  : 
How  poor  we  were,  how  scantily 

We  all  were  clothed  and  fed  ! 
But  though  a  wretched  little  child, 

I  know  not  why  or  how, 
I  did  not  feel  it  half  so  much 

As  I  can  feel  it  now  ! 

When  mother  sat  at  night  and  sewed, 
My  rest  was  calm  and  deep  ; 

I  did  not  know  that  she  was  tired, 
Or  that  she  needed  sleep. 


78  THE  BROTHERS. 

She  wrapped  the  covering  round  our  bed, 

In  many  an  ample  fold  ; 
She  had  not  half  so  much  herself 

To  keep  her  from  the  cold. 

I  know  it  now,  I  know  it  all,  — 

They  knew  it  then  above,  — 
Her  life  of  patient  sacrifice, 

And  never-tiring  love. 
I  know,  for  then  her  tasks  seemed  done,  - 

We  all  were  grown  beside, — 
How  glad  she  must  have  been  to  go, 

After  the  baby  died  ! 

I  do  not  care  to  deck  me  now 

With  costly  robe  or  gaud,  — 
My  mother  dressed  so  plain  at  home, 

And  never  went  abroad. 
I  do  not  even  want  a  shroud 

Of  linen,  white  and  pure,  — 
They  made  our  little  baby  one 

That  was  so  coarse  and  poor. 

I  had  another  brother  then, 
I  prayed  that  God  would  save  ; 


THE    BROTHERS.  79 


I  knew  not  life  had  darker  dooms 
Than  lying  in  the  grave. 

I  did  not  know,  when  o'er  the  dead 
So  bitterly  I  cried, 

I  'd  live  to  wish  a  thousand  times 
The  other,  too,  had  died. 


80 


REMORSE. 

0  SWEETEST  friend  I  ever  had, 

How  sinks  my  heavy  heart  to  know 
That  life,  which  was  so  bright  for  thee, 
Has  lost  its  sunshine  and  its  glow  ! 

1  cannot  think  of  thee  as  one 

Sighing  for  calm  repose  in  vain  ; 
Nor  of  the  beauty  of  thy  smile, 
Faded  and  sadly  dim  with  pain. 

Thou  surely  shouldst  not  be  to-day 
Lying  upon  the  autumn  leaves, 

But  in  the  border-fields  of  hope, 
Binding  the  blossoms  into  sheaves. 


REMORSE.  81 

I 

For,  with  a  shadow  on  thy  way, 

The  sunshine  of  my  life  is  o'er, 
And  flowery  dell  and  fresh  green  holt 

Can  charm  my  footsteps  nevermore  ! 

And  if  I  have  not  always  seen 

The  beauty  of  thy  deeds  aright,  — 

If  I  have  failed  to  make  thy  path 
As  smooth  and  even  as  I  might,  — 

Not  thine  the  fault,  but  mine  the  sin, 
And  I  have  felt  its  heaviest  curse 

Fall  on  the  heart  that  aches  to-day, 
With  vain  repentance  and  remorse, — 

A  heart  that  lifts  its  cry  to  thee, 

Above  this  wild  and  awful  blast, 
That,  sweeping  from  the  hills  of  home, 

Brings  bitterest  memories  of  the  past. 

O,  sweet  forgiveness,  from  thy  love, 
Send  to  me  o'er  the  waste  between  ; 

Not  as  thou  hop'st  to  be  forgiven,  • 
For  thou  hast  never  bowed  to  sin. 
6 


•82  REMORSE. 

Pure  as  thy  light  of  life  was  given, 
Thou  still  hast  kept  its  steady  flame  ; 

And  the  chaste  garment  of  thy  soul 
Is  white  and  spotless  as  it  carne. 


83 


PROPHECY. 

No  great  sea  lifts  its  angry  waves 

Between  me  and  the  friend  most  dear, 

And  over  all  our  household  graves 

The  grass  has  grown  for  many  a  year. 

With  all  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice. 

The  days  of  summer  go  and  come  ; 
No  feeble  step,  no  failing  voice, 

Saddens  the  chambers  of  our  home. 

Yet,  though  I  know,  and  feel,  and  see, 
God's  blessings  all  about  my  way, 

The  burden  of  sad  prophecy 
Lies  heavy  on  my  soul  to-day. 


84  PROPHECY. 

These  awful  words  of  destiny 

Are  sounding  in  my  heart  and  brain  : 

"  Not  an  unbroken  family 

Shall  summer  find  us  here  again  !  " 

O  God  !  if  this  indeed  be  so, 

Whose  pillow  then  shall  be  unprest  ? 

Whose  heart,  that  feels  life's  pleasant  glow, 
Shall  faint,  and  beat  itself  to  rest  ? 

Eternal  silence  makes  reply, 

We  may  not,  cannot  know  our  doom ; 

No  voice  comes  downward  from  the  sky, 
No  voice  comes  upward  from  the  tomb. 

Yet  this  I  would  not  ask  in  vain : 

Hide  from  my  wretched  eyes  the  day 

When  by  our  household  graves  again 
The  turf  is  lightly  put  away  ! 

First  from  our  home,  though  all  descend 
At  last  to  that  one  place  of  rest, 

O  solemn  Earth  !  O  mighty  Friend  ! 
Take  me  and  hide  me  in  thy  breast ! 


85 


THE   DREAMER. 

BLOW  life's  most  fearful  tempest,  blow, 
And  make  the  midnight  wild  and  rough  ; 

My  soul  shall  battle  with  you  now,  — 
I  've  been  a  dreamer  long  enough  ! 

Open,  O  sea,  a  darker  path, 

Dash  to  my  lips  the  angry  spray  ; 

The  tenth  wave  of  thy  fiercest  wrath 
Were  nothing  to  my  strength  to-day  ! 

Though  floating  onward  listlessly 
When  pleasant  breezes  softly  blew, 

My  spirit  with  the  adverse  sea 

Shall  rise,  and  gather  strength  anew 


86  THE    DREAMER. 

Wake,  soul  of  mine,  and  be  thou  strong ; 

Keep  down  thy  weakness,  human  heart ; 
Thou  hast  unnerved  my  arm  too  long, 

O  foolish  dreamer  that  thou  art ! 

For  I  have  sat  and  mused  for  hours 
Of  havens  that  I  yet  should  see, 

Of  winding  paths  of  pleasant  flowers, 
And  summer  islands  in  the  sea, — 

Forgetful  of  the  storms  that  come, 
Of  winds  that  dig  the  ocean  grave, 

And  sharp  reefs  hidden  by  the  foam 

That  drifts  like  blossoms  on  the  wave,  — 

Forgetful,  too,  that  he  who  guides 
Must  have  a  firm  and  steadfast  hand, 

If  e'er  his  vessel  safely  rides 

Through  storm  and  breaker  to  the  land,- 

Idly  and  listless  drifting  on, 

Feeding  my  fancy  all  the  while, 

As  lovesick  dreamers  feed  upon 
The  honeyed  sweetness  of  a  smile. 


THE    DREAMER. 

Fool  that  I  was,  —  ay  !  Folly's  mock,  — 
To  think  not,  in  those  pleasant  hours, 

How  barks  have  foundered  on  the  rock, 
And  drifted  past  the  isles  of  flowers  ! 

Yet  well  it  were,  if,  roused  to  feel, 
I  yet  avert  such  fearful  fate,  — 

The  quick,  sharp  grating  of  the  keel 
Had  been  a  warning  all  too  late. 

But  courage  still ;  for  whether  now 
Or  rough  or  smooth  life's  ocean  seems, 

To-day  my  soul  records  her  vow, 
Hereafter  I  am  done  with  dreams  ! 


•87 


THE    CONSECRATION. 

O  SOUL,  that  must  survive  that  hour 

When  heart  shall  fail  and  flesh  decay  ! 
God,  angels,  men,  are  witnesses 

Of  vows  which  thou  hast  made  to-day. 
What  solemn  fears  this  hour  are  born, 

What  joyful  hopes  this  hour  are  given  ! 
Thought  reaches  down  from  heaven  to  hell, 

And  up  from  farthest  hell  to  heaven. 

Before  my  fearful  vision  pass 

Those  star-like  souls,  grown  darkly  dim,  — 
The  sea  of  mingled  glass  and  fire, 

The  saints  and  priests  with  conquering  hymn. 


THE    CONSECRATION.  89 

• 

0  God !  shall  I  go  down  with  those, 

Wandering  through  blackness  from  their  place, 
Or  up  with  the  redeemed  and  saved, 

Who  stand  before  their  Father's  face  ? 

For  now  my  eyes  have  seen  the  truth, 

This  is  thy  sure  and  just  decree  : 
41  If  I  shall  turn  again  to  sin, 

There  is  no  sacrifice  for  me  "  : 
And  the  baptismal  touch,  which  lay 

So  lightly  on  the  brow  beneath, 
Shall  be  omnipotent  in  power, 

To  press  me  surely  down  to  death. 

Its  seal  shall  be  a  diadem, 

To  shine  amid  the  angel  choir, 
Or  on  my  forehead  burn  in  hell, 

An  everlasting  crown  of  fire  ; 
And  all  who  hear  my  vows  to-day 

Shall  hear  my  final  sentence  read : 
God,  angels,  men,  are  witnesses 

At  the  great  judgment  of  the  dead. 


DRAWING    WATER. 

I  HAD  drunk,  with  lip  unsated, 

Where  the  founts  of  pleasure  burst ; 

I  had  hewn  out  broken  cisterns, 

And  they  mocked  my  spirit's  thirst : 

And  I  said,  life  is  a  desert, 

Hot,  and  measureless,  and  dry ; 

And  God  will  not  give  me  water, 
Though  I  pray,  and  faint,  and  die. 

Spoke  there  then  a  friend  and  brother, 
"  Rise,  and  roll  the  stone  away ; 

There  are  founts  of  life  upspringing 
In  thy  pathway  every  day." 


DRAWING    WATER.  91 

Then  I  said  my  heart  was  sinful, 

Very  sinful  was  my  speech  ; 
All  the  wells  of  God's  salvation 

Are  too  deep  for  me  to  reach. 

And  he  answered,  "  Rise  and  labor,  — 

Doubt  and  idleness  is  death  ; 
Shape  thee  out  a  goodly  vessel 

With  the  strong  hands  of  thy  faith." 

So  I  wrought  and  shaped  the  vessel, 

Then  knelt  lowly,  humbly  there, 
And  I  drew  up  living  water 

With  the  golden  chain  of  prayer. 


SOLEMNITY    OF  LIFE. 

WHETHER  are  cast  our  destinies 
In  peaceful  ways,  or  ways  of  strife  ; 

A  solemn  thing  to  us  it  is, 
This  mystery  of  human  life. 

Solemn,  when  first,  unconscious,  dumb, 
Within  an  untried  world  we  stand, 

Immortal  beings  that  have  come 
Newly  from  God's  creating  hand. 

And  solemn,  even  as  'tis  fleet, 

The  time  when,  learning  childish  fears, 
We  cross,  with  scarcely  balanced  feet, 

The  threshold  of  our  mortal  years. 


SOLEMNITY    OF    LIFE.  93 

'T  is  solemn,  when,  with  parting  smiles, 
We  leave  its  innocence  and  truth, 

To  learn  how  deeper  than  the  child's 
Are  all  the  loves  and  fears  of  youth. 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  snap 

The  cords  of  human  love  apart ; 
More  solemn  still  to  feel  them  wrap 

Their  wondrous  strength  about  the  heart. 

'T  is  solemn  to  have  ever  known 

The  pleadings  of  the  soul  unmoved, — 

Solemn  to  feel  ourselves  alone  ; 
More  solemn  still  to  be  beloved. 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  wear 

The  roses  of  the  bridal  wreath,  — 

Solemn  the  words  we  utter  there, 
Of  faith  unchanging  until  death. 

Solemn  is  life,  when  God  unlocks 
The  fountain  in  the  soul  most  deep,  — 

Solemn  the  heart-beat,  when  it  rocks 
A  young  immortal  to  its  sleep. 


94  SOLEMNITY    OF    LIFE. 

Tis  solemn  when  the  Power  above 
Darkens  our  being's  living  spark, — 

Solemn  to  see  the  friends  we  love 

Going  downward  from  us  to  the  dark. 

O  human  life,  when  all  thy  woes 

And  all  thy  trials  are  struggled  through, 

What  can  eternity  disclose 

More  wondrous  solemn  than  we  knew  ! 


95 


MY    BLESSINGS. 

GREAT  waves  of  plenty  rolling  up 
Their  golden  billows  to  our  feet, 

Fields  where  the  ungathered  rye  is  white, 
Or  heavy  with  the  yellow  wheat ;  — 

Wealth  surging  inward  from  the  sea, 
And  plenty  through  our  land  abroad, 

With  sunshine  resting  over  all, 
That  everlasting  smile  of  God  ! 

For  these,  yet  not  for  these  alone, 
My  tongue  its  gratitude  would  say  : 

All  the  great  blessings  of  my  life 
Are  present  in  my  thought  to-day. 


96  MY   BLESSINGS. 

For  more  than  all  my  mortal  wants 

Have  been,  O  God,  thy  full  supplies  ;  — 

Health,  shelter,  and  my  daily  bread, 
For  these  my  grateful  thanks  arise. 

For  ties  of  faith,  whose  wondrous  strength 

Time  nor  eternity  can  part ; 
For  all  the  words  of  love  that  fall 

Like  living  waters  on  my  heart; 

For  even  that  fearful  strife,  where  sin 
Was  conquered  and  subdued  at  length, 

Temptations  met  and  overcome, 

Whereby  my  soul  has  gathered  strength  ; 

For  all  the  warnings  that  have  come 
From  mortal  agony  or  death ; 

For  even  that  bitterest  storm  of  life, 
Which  drove  me  on  the  rock  of  faith. 

For  all  the  past  I  thank  thee,  God ! 

And  for  the  future  trust  in  thee, 
Whate'er  of  trial  or  blessing  yet, 

Asked  or  unasked,  thou  hast  for  me. 


MY  BLESSINGS.  97 

Yet  only  this  one  boon  I  crave,  — 
After  life's  brief  and  fleeting  hour, 

Make  my  beloved  thy  beloved, 

And  keep  us  in  thy  day  of  power ! 


98 


SABBATH    THOUGHTS 

I  AM  sitting  all  the  while 
Looking  down  the  solemn  aisle, 
Toward  the  saints  and  martyrs  old, 
Standing  in  their  niches  cold,  — 
Toward  the  wings  of  cherubs  fair, 
Veiling  half  their  golden  hair, 
And  the  painted  light  that  falls 
Through  the  window  on  the  walls. 

I  can  see  the  revered  flow 
Of  soft  garments,  white  as  snow, 
And  the  shade  of  silver  hair 
Dropping  on  the  book  of  prayer. 


SABBATH   THOUGHTS. 

I  can  hear  the  litany, 
"  Miserable  sinners,  we  !  " 
And  the  organ  swelling  higher, 
And  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 

And  I  marvel  if  with  them, 

In  the  New  Jerusalem, 

I  shall  hear  the  sacred  choir 

Chant  with  naming  tongues  of  fire  ; 

If  I  e'er  shall  find  a  place 

With  the  ransomed,  saved  by  grace  ; 

If  my  feet  shall  ever  tread 

Where  the  just  are  perfected  ? 

Not,  my  soul,  as  now  thou  art ; 
Not  with  this  rebellious  heart ; 
Not  with  nature  unsubdued, 
Evil  overshadowing  good ; 
Not  while  I  for  pardon  seek 
With  a  faith  so  faint  and  weak  ; 
Not  while  tempted  thus  to  sin, 
From  without  and  from  within  ! 

Thou  whom  love  did  once  compel 
Down  from  heaven  to  sleep  in  hell ; 


99 


100 


SABBATH    THOUGHTS. 


Thou  whose  mercy  purged  from  dross 
Even  the  thief  upon  the  cross, 
Save  me,  O  thou  bleeding  Lamb, 
Chief  of  sinners  though  I  am, 
When,  with  clouds  about  thee  furled, 
Thou  shalt  come  to  judge  the  world  ! 


101 


NEARER    HOME. 

ONE  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  have  ever  been  before  ;  — 

Nearer  my  Father's  house 

Where  the  many  mansions  be  ; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  jasper  sea  ;  — 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  ; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 


102  NEARER    HOME. 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 

Is  the  dim  and  unknown  stream 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dark  abysm  ; 

Closer  death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrysm. 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ; 

Strengthen  the  might  of  my  faith  ; 
Let  me  feel  as  I  would  when  I  stand 

On  the  rock  of  the  shore  of  death, 

Feel  as  I  would  when  my  feet 
Are  slipping  o'er  the  brink  ; 

For  it  may  be  I  'm  nearer  home,  — 
Nearer  now  than  I  think. 


103 


HYMN. 

GOD  of  the  Sabbath,  calm  and  still, 
Father,  in  whom  we  live  and  move, 

How  do  our  trembling  bosoms  thrill 
With  words  which  tell  us  of  thy  love  ! 

Thine  heralds,  speaking  of  the  tomb, 
The  organ's  voice,  the  censer's  flame, 

The  solemn  minster's  shadowy  gloom, 
Awe  us,  and  make  us  fear  thy  name. 

The  earthquake,  opening  deep  its  graves, 
The  lightning,  running  down  the  sky, 

The  great  sea,  lifting  up  its  waves, 
Speak  of  thine  awful  majesty  ! 


104 


HYMN. 


But  once  thou  earnest  in  Eden's  prime, 
Lord  of  the  soul,  to  talk  with  men, 

And  in  the  cool  of  eventime 

Thou  seemest  with  us,  now  as  then. 

For  when  our  trembling  souls  draw  near, 
And  silence  keeps  the  earth  and  sea, 

Thou  speak'st,  with  no  interpreter 

To  stand  between  our  hearts  and  thee  ! 


105 


SOWING    SEED. 

Go  and  sow  beside  all  waters, 
In  the  morning  of  thy  youth, 

In  the  evening  scatter  broadcast 
Precious  seeds  of  living  truth. 


For  though  much  may  sink  and  perish 

In  the  rocky,  barren  mould, 
And  the  harvest  of  thy  labor 

May  be  less  than  thirty-fold, 

Let  thy  hand  be  not  withholden, 

Still  beside  all  waters  sow, 
For  thou  know'st  not  which  shall  prosper, 

Whether  this  or  that  will  grow, 


106 


SOWING    SEED. 


While  some  precious  portion,  scattered, 

Germinating,  taking  root, 
Shall  spring  up,  and  grow,  and  ripen 

Into  never-dying  fruit. 

Therefore,  sow  beside  all  waters, 
Trusting,  hoping,  toiling  on  ; 

When  the  fields  are  white  for  harvest, 
God  will  send  his  angels  down. 

And  thy  soul  may  see  the  value 
Of  its  patient  morns  and  eves, 

When  the  everlasting  garner 

Shall  be  filled  with  precious  sheaves. 


107 


THE    BAPTISM. 

FROM  the  waters  of  affliction, 
From  her  baptism  of  dark  woe, 

With  her  sweet  eyes  very  mournful, 
And  her  forehead  like  the  snow, 

Carne  she  up  ;  and,  O,  how  many 
In  such  hours  of  trial  are  seen, 

When  they  faint  with  mortal  weakness, 
Knowing  not  whereon  to  lean  ! 

With  her  face  upon  my  bosom, 
Said  she  then  in  accent  sad, 

As  she  wound  her  arms  about  me, 
I  was  all  the  friend  she  had. 


THE    BAPTISM. 

And  I  told  her  —  pushing  backward 
From  her  forehead  like  the  snow, 

All  her  tear- wet  tresses,  dripping 
With  that  baptism  of  dark  woe  — 

How,  in  all  that  great  affliction, 

Loving  hands  had  led  her  on, 
When  she  came  up  from  the  waters, 

Led  her  when  her  feet  went  down,  — 

And  that  only  the  good  Father, . 

He  who  thus  her  faith  had  tried, 
Could  have  brought  her  through  the  billows, 

Safely  to  the  other  side. 

And  I  told  her  how  life's  pilgrims 
Crossed  that  solemn  stream  beneath, 

To  a  brighter  pathway  leading, 
Up  the  living  hills  of  faith. 

Lifting  upward  from  my  bosom 
Then  her  forehead  like  the  snow, 

I  will  weep,  ~>he  said,  no  longer, 
Therefore  rise  and  let  us  go  ! 


THE    BAPTISM.  109 

And,  as  one  who  walks  untroubled 

By  no  mortal  doubt  or  fear, 
Oft  we  heard  her  far  above  us, 

Singing  hymns  of  lofty  cheer,  — 

Till  with  feet  that  firmly  balanced 

On  faith's  surnmit-rock  she  trod, 
And  beheld  the  shining  bastions 

Of  the  city  of  our  God. 

Then  her  voice  was  tenderer,  holier, 

She  grew  gentler  all  the  while ; 
It  was  like  a  benediction 

But  to  see  her  patient  smile. 

As  she  walked  with  cheerful  spirit 

Where  her  daily  duties  led, 
"  Father,  keep  me  from  temptation," 

Was  the  only  prayer  she  said. 

Often  made  she  earnest  pleading, 

As  she  went  from  us  apart, 
To  be  saved  through  all  her  lifetime 

From  the  weakness  of  her  heart. 


HO  THE    BAPTISM. 

And  she  prayed  that  she  might  never, 

Never  in  her  trials  below, 
Bring  her  soul  before  the  altar, 

Wailing  in  unchastened  woe. 

So  her  hands  of  faith  were  strengthened, 
And  when  clouds  about  her  lay, 

From  her  bosom  all  the  darkness 
She  could  softly  put  away. 

Smilingly  she  went  unaided, 

When  we  would  have  led  her  on, 

Saying  always  to  our  pleading, 
Better  that  I  go  alone. 

Turned  she  from  the  faces  dearest 
When  her  feet  more  feebly  trod, 

That  she  might  not  then  be  tempted 
By  a  mortal  love  from  God. 

So  the  Father,  for  her  pleading, 

Kept  her  safe  through  all  life's  hours, 

And  her  path  went  brightly  upward 
To  eternity  through  flowers. 


Ill 


THE    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN. 

O,  BEAUTIFUL  as  Morning  in  those  hours 
When,  as  her  pathway  lies  along  the  hills, 

Her  golden  fingers  wake  the  dewy  flowers, 
And  softly  touch  the  waters  of  the  rills, 

Was  she  who  walked  more  faintly  day  by  day, 

Till  silently  she  perished  by  the  way. 

It  was  not  hers  to  know  that  perfect  heaven 
Of  passionate  love  returned  by  love  as  deep, 

Not  hers  to  sing  the  cradle-song  at  even, 
Watching  the  beauty  of  her  babe  asleep  ; 

"Mother  and  brethren,"  —  these  she  had  not  known, 

Save  such  as  do  the  Father's  will  alone. 


112  THE    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN. 

Yet  found  she  something  still  for  which  to  live,  — 
Hearths  desolate,  where  angel-like  she  came  ; 

And  "  little  ones,"  to  whom  her  hand  could  give 
A  cup  of  ,vater  in  her  Master's  name  ; 

And  breaking  hearts,  to  bind  away  from  death 

With  the  soft  hand  of  pitying  love  and  faith. 

She  never  won  the  voice  of  popular  praise, 
But,  counting  earthly  triumph  as  but  dross, 

Seeking  to  keep  her  Saviour's  perfect  ways, 
Bearing  in  quiet  paths  his  blessed  cross, 

She  made  her  life,  while  with  us  here  she  trod, 

A  consecration  to  the  will  of  God. 

And  she  hath  lived  and  labored  not  in  vain  : 

Through  the  deep  prison-cells  her  accents  thrill, 

And  the  sad  slave  leans  idly  on  his  chain, 
And  hears  the  music  of  her  singing  still ; 

While  little  children,  with  their  innocent  praise, 

Keep  freshly  in  men's  hearts  her  Christian  ways. 

And  what  a  beautiful  lesson  she  made  known ! 

The  whiteness  of  her  soul  sin  could  not  dim  ; 
Ready  to  lay  down  on  God's  altar-stone 

The  dearest  treasure  of  her  life  for  Him, 


THE    CHRISTIAN    WOMAN.  113 

Her  flame  of  sacrifice  never,  never  waned  ; 
How  could  she  live  and  die  so  self-sustained  ? 

For  friends  supported  not  her  parting  soul, 

And  whispered  words  of  comfort,  kind  and  sweet, 

When  treading  onward  to  that  final  goal, 

Where  the  still  Bridegroom  waited  for  her  feet ; 

Alone  she  walked,  yet  with  a  fearless  tread, 

Down  to  Death's  chamber  and  his  bridal  bed ! 


114 


THE   HOSTS   OF   THOUGHT. 

How  heavy  fall  the  evening  shades, 
Making  the  earth  more  dark  and  drear, 

As  to  its  sunset  sadly  fades 

This,  the  last  Sabbath  of  the  year ! 

Oft,  when  the  light  has  softly  burned 
Among  the  clouds,  as  day  was  done, 

I  Ve  watched  their  golden  furrows  turned 
By  the  red  ploughshare  of  the  sun. 

To-night,  no  track  of  billowy  gold 
Is  softly  slanting  down  the  skies ; 

But  dull-gray  bastions,  dark  and  cold, 
Shut  all  the  glory  from  my  eyes. 


THE    HOSTS    OF    THOUGHT.  115 

And  in  the  plain  that  lies  below, 

What  cheerless  prospect  meets  my  eye  ! 

One  long  and  level  reach  of  snow, 
Stretching  to  meet  the  western  sky  ! 

While  far  across  these  lonesome  vales, 

Like  a  lost  soul,  and  unconfined, 
Down  through  the  mountain  gorges  wails 

The  awful  spirit  of  the  wind. 

W7hen,  yester-eve,  the  twilight  stilled, 
With  soft,  caressing  hand,  the  day, 

Upon  my  heart,  that  joyous  thrilled, 
A  sweet,  tumultuous  vision  lay. 

To-night,  in  sorrow's  arms  enwound, 

I  think  of  broken  faith  and  trust, 
And  tresses,  from  their  flowers  unbound, 

Hid  in  the  dimness  of  the  dust. 

And  hopes  that  took  their  heavenward  flight, 

As  fancy  lately  gave  them  birth, 
Slow  through  the  solemn  air  to-night 

Are  beating  backward  to  the  earth. 


116  THE    HOSTS    OF    THOUGHT. 

O  memory,  if  the  shadowy  hand 

Lock  all  thy  death-crypts  close  and  fast, 

Call  not  my  spirit  back  to  stand 
In  the  dark  chamber  of  the  past ! 

For  trembling  fear,  and  mortal  doubt, 
About  me  all  day  long  have  been  ; 

So  even  the  dreary  world  without 
Is  brighter  than  the  world  within. 

Pale  hosts  of  thought  before  me  start : 
O  for  that  needed  power  I  lack, 

To  guard  the  fortress  of  my  heart, 
And  press  their  awful  columns  back  ! 

O  for  a  soul  to  meet  their  gaze, 
And  grapple  fearless  with  its  woe  ! 

As  the  wild  athlete,  of  old  days, 
In  the  embraces  of  the  foe  ! 

Thoughts  of  the  many  lost  and  loved,  — 
Each  unfulfilled  and  noble  plan,  — 

Memories  of  Sabbaths  unimproved, — 
Duty  undone  to  God  or  man  ;  — 


THE    HOSTS    OF    THOUGHT.  117 

They  come,  with  solemn,  warning  frown, 
Like  ghosts  about  some  haunted  tent ; 

And  courage  silently  goes  down, 
Before  their  dreadful  armament. 

O  friend  of  mine,  in  years  agone, 

Where'er,  at  this  dark  hour,  thou  art, 

Why  hast  thou  left  me  here  alone, 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  heart  ? 

Alone  ?     A  soft  eye's  tender  light 
Is  turned  to  meet  my  anxious  glance  ; 

And,  struggling  upward  from  the  night, 
My  soul  has  broken  from  her  trance. 

Love  is  omnipotent  to  check 

Such  'wildering  fancies  of  the  brain  ; 

A  soft  hand  trembles  on  my  neck, 
And  lo,  I  sit  with  hope  again  ! 

Even  the  sky  no  longer  seems 

Like  a  dull  barrier,  built  afar  ; 
And  through  its  crumbling  wall  there  gleams 

The  sweet  flame  of  one  burning  star. 


THE    HOSTS    OF    THOUGHT. 

The  winds,  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Came  down  the  dreary  plains  to  sweep, 

Back,  in  the  cavernous  hollow,  now 
Have  softly  sung  themselves  to  sleep. 

Come,  thou,  whose  love  no  waning  knows, 
And  put  thy  gentle  hand  in  mine, 

For  strong  in  faith  my  spirit  grows, 
Leaning  confidingly  on  thine. 

And  in  the  calm,  or  in  the  strife, 
If  side  by  side  with  thee  I  move, 

Hereafter  I  will  live  a  life 

That  shall  not  shame  thy  trusting  love. 

Memory  and  fear,  with  all  their  powers, 
No  more  my  soul  shall  crush  or  bend  ; 

For  the  great  future  still  is  ours, 

And  thou  art  with  me,  O  my  friend ! 


119 


OUR    HOMESTEAD. 

OUR  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls, 

From  the  way-side  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruitage  on  its  roof : 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew, 

That  when  awake  I  've  lain, 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I  've  heard  the  limbs, 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane  : 
And  those  orchard  trees,  O  those  orchard  trees  ! 

I  've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier  under  the  window-sill, 
Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 


120 


OUR    HOMESTEAD. 


And  the  damask  rose  by  the  garden  fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I  've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier, 

But  not  to  me  so  fair  ; 

For  those  roses  bright,  O  those  roses  bright ! 
I  have  twined  them  with  my  sister's  locks, 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight ! 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were  falling  constantly : 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  that  in  my  little  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep, 

Which  rny  father's  hand  set  up  ; 
And  that  deep  old  well,  O  that  deep  old  well ! 

I  remember  yet  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 
Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet ; 


OUR    HOMESTEAD.  121 

There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always  sweet ; 
And  there  I  've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  'his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven  hair,  — 

That  hair  is  silver  now  ! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  0  that  broad  hearth's  light ! 

And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile,  — 
They  are  in  my  heart  to-night. 


122 


THE   BOOK   OF  POEMS. 

ON  the  pages  whose  rhymed  music 

So  oft  has  charmed  thine  ears, 
I  have  gazed  till  my  heart  is  filling 

With  memories  of  vanished  years  ; 
And,  leaving  the  lines  of  the  poet, 

Has  sadly  turned  to  roam 
Away  to  that  beautiful  valley 

In  the  sunset  land  of  home  ! 

O  land  of  the  greenest  pastures, 
O  land  of  the  coolest  streams, 

Shall  I  only  again  be  near  you 
In  the  shadowy  light  of  dreams  ? 


THE    BOOK    OF    POEMS.  123 

Shall  I  only  sit  in  visions 

By  the  hearth  and  the  lattice-pane, 
And  my  friend  of  the  past,  my  brother, 

Shall  we  meet  not  there  again  ? 

As  a  sweet  memorial  ever 

This  book  to  my  heart  will  be  ; 
But  I  never  can  read  its  pages 

So  far  from  home  and  thee  ; 
For  the  words  grow  dim  before  me, 

Or  tremble  on  my  lips, 
And  the  disc  of  life's  orb  of  beauty 

Is  darkened  with  woe's  eclipse. 

So  for  ever  closed  and  clasped 

Shall  the  volume  lie  unread, 
As  might  in  some  ancient  cloister 

The  gift  of  the  saintly  dead, 
Till  our  hands  shall  open  its  pages 

Once  more  beneath  that  dome 
That  hangs  o'er  the  beautiful  valley, 

In  the  sunset  land  of  home  ! 


124 


TO    FRANK. 

'T  is  three  years  and  something  over 
Since  I  looked  upon  you  last, 

But  I  only  think  about  you 
As  I  saw  you  in  the  past. 

And  when  memory  recalls  you, 

As  she  has  done  to  day, 
You  're  just  as  young,  and  just  as  small, 

As  when  you  went  away. 

I  can  see  you  hunt  for  flowers 

In  the  meadows  green  and  sweet, 

Or  go  wading  through  the  hollows 
With  your  little,  naked  feet ;  — 


TO    FRANK. 


1-25 


Or  peeping  through  the  bushes 
That  hedged  the  garden  round, 

To  see  if  any  little  birds 

Were  in  the  nest  you  'd  found. 

And  I  know  how  in  the  clover, 

Where  the  bees  were  used  to  come, 

You  held  them  down  beneath  your  hat, 
To  hear  their  pleasant  hum. 

And  how  in  summer  evenings, 

Through  the  door-yard  wet  with  dew, 

The  watch-dog  led  you  many  a  chase,  — 
He  's  growing  older  too  ! 

I  know  when  on  the  dear  old  porch 
We  coaxed  you  first  to  walk, 

And  treasured  every  word  you  said 
When  you  began  to  talk. 

We  asked  you  what  you  meant  to  be, 
And  laughed  at  your  replies, 

Because  you  said,  when  you  grew  up 
To  manhood,  you  'd  be  wise. 


126 


TO    FRANK. 


And  may  you  pray  the  God  of  love, 

And  I  will  pray  him  too, 
To  make  you  wise  in  every  thing 

That  makes  man  good  and  true ! 


127 


PLEA   FOR   THE    HOMELESS. 

COLUMBIA,  fairest  nation  of  the  world, 
Sitting  in  queenly  beauty  in  the  west, 

With  all  thy  banners  round  about  thee  furled, 
Nursing  the  cherub  Peace  upon  thy  breast ! 

Never  did  daughter  of  a  kingly  line 

Look  on  a  lovelier  heritage  than  thine  ! 

Thou  hast  deep  forests  stretching  far  away, 
The  giant  growth  of  the  long  centuries, 

From  whose  dim  shadows  to  the  light  of  day 
Come  forth  the  mighty  rivers  toward  the  seas, 

To  walk  like  happy  lovers,  hand  in  hand, 

Down  through  the  green  vales  of  our  pleasant  land. 

Thou  hast  broad  prairies,  where  the  lonely  flowers 
Blossom  and  perish  with  the  changing  year  ; 


128  PLEA   FOR   THE    HOMELESS. 

Where  harvests  wave  not  through  the  summer  hours, 

Nor  with  the  autumn  ripen  in  the  ear ; 
And  beautiful  lakes,  that  toss  their  milky  spray 
Where  the  strong  ship  hath  never  cleaved  its  way. 

And  yet,  with  all  thy  broad  and  fertile  land, 
Where  hands  sow  not,  nor  gather  in  the  grain, 

Thy  children  come  and  round  about  thee  stand, 
Asking  the  blessing  of  a  home  in  vain,  — 

Still  lingering,  but  with  feet  that  long  to  press 

Through  the  green  windings  of  the  wilderness. 

In  populous  cities  do  men  live  and  die, 

That  never  breathe  the  pure  and  liberal  air  ; 

Down  where  the  damp  and  desolate  rice-swamps  lie, 
Wearying  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  constant  prayer, 

Are  souls  that  never  yet  have  learned  to  raise 

Under  God's  equal  sky  the  psalm  of  praise. 

Turn  not,  Columbia !  from  their  pleading  eyes  ; 

Give  to  thy  sons  that  ask  of  thee  a  home  ; 
So  shall  they  gather  round  thee,  not  with  sighs, 

But  as  young  children  to  their  mother  come  ; 
And  brightly  to  the  centuries  shall  go  down 
The  glory  that  thou  wearest  like  a  crown. 


129 


MORNING. 

SADLY,  when  the  day  was  done, 
To  his  setting  waned  the  sun  ; 
Heavily  the  shadows  fell, 
And  the  wind,  with  fitful  swell, 
Echoed  through  the  forest  dim 
Like  a  friar's  ghostly  hymn. 

Mournful  on  the  wall,  afar, 
Walked  the  evening  sentry-star  ; 
Burning  clear,  and  cold,  and  lone, 
Midnight's  constellations  shone  ; 
While  the  hours,  with  solemn  tread, 
Passed  like  watchers  by  the  dead. 

Nowat  last  the  Morning  wakes, 
And  'the  spell  of  darkness  breaks, 
9 


130  MORNING. 

On  the  mountains,  dewy  sweet, 
Standing  with  her  rosy  feet, 
While  her  golden  fingers  fair 
Part  the  soft  flow  of  her  hair. 

With  the  dew  from  flower  and  leaf 
Flies  the  heavy  dew  of  grief; 
From  the  darkness  of  my  thought, 
Night  her  solemn  aspect  caught ; 
And  the  morning's  joys  begin, 
As  a  morning  breaks  within. 

God's  free  sunshine  on  the  hills, 
Soft  mists  hanging  o'er  the  rills, 
Blushing  flowers  of  loveliness 
Trembling  with  the  light  wind's  kiss, 
O,  the  soul  forgets  its  care, 
Looking  on  a  world  so  fair ! 

Morning  wooes  me  with  her  charms, 
Like  a  lover's  pleading  arms  ; 
Soft  above  me  bend  her  skies, 
As  a  lover's  tender  eyes  ; 
And  my  heavy  heart  of  pain,  - 
Trembling,  thrills  with  hope  again. 


131 


DAWN. 

THE  sunken  moon  was  down  an  hour  agone  ; 

And  now  the  little  silver  cloud,  that  leant 
So  lovingly  above  her  as  she  went, 

Is  changing  with  the  touches  of  the  dawn  : 

For  from  the  clasped  arms  of  the  sweet  nighf, 
Lo  !  the  young  Dawn  has  gently  stolen  away, 
And  stars,  that  late  burned  with  an  intense  ray, 

Fade  to  a  wannish,  melancholy  light. 

A  moment,  smiling  on  the  hills  she  stands, 
Parting  the  curtains  of  the  East  away  ; 

Then  lightly,  with  her  white  caressing  hands, 
Touches  the  trembling  eyelids  of  the  Day  ; 

And,  leaning  o'er  his  couch  of  rosy  beams, 

Wooes  him  with  kisses  softly  from  his  dreams. 


PARODIES. 


MARTHA    HOPKINS. 

A   BALLAD   OF   INDIANA. 

FROM  the  kitchen,  Martha  Hopkins,  as  she  stands  there 

making  pies, 
Southward  looks,  along  the  turnpike,  with  her  hand 

above  her  eyes ; 
Where,  along  the  distant  hill-side,  her  yearling  heifer 

feeds, 
And  a  little   grass  is  growing  in  a  mighty  sight  of 

weeds. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  noises,  for  there  is  n't  any  school, 

And  boys,  with  turned-up  pantaloons,  are  wading  in  the 
pool ; 

Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  chickens,  cackling,  for  they 
cannot  laugh  ; 

Where  the  airy  summits  brighten,  nimbly  leaps  the  lit 
tle  calf. 


136  MARTHA    HOPKINS. 

Gentle  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins !  tell  me  wherefore  do 

ye  gaze 
On  the  ground  that 's  being  furrowed  for  the  planting  of 

the  maize  ? 
Tell  me  wherefore  down  the  valley  ye  have  traced 

the  turnpike's  way, 
Far  beyond  the  cattle-pasture,  and  the  brickyard,  with 

its  clay  ? 

Ah !  the  dog-wood  tree  may  blossom,  and  the  door- 
yard  grass  may  shine, 

With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping  from  the  washing  on 
the  line, 

And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam  lightly  brush  her 
freckled  cheek, — 

Little  recketh  Martha  Hopkins  of  the  tales  of  spring 
they  speak. 

When  the  summer's  burning  solstice  on  the  scanty  har 
vest  glowed, 

She  had  watched  a  man  on  horseback  riding  down  the 
turnpike-road  ; 

Many  times  she  saw  him  turning,  looking  backward 
quite  forlorn, 

Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
barn. 


MARTHA    HOPKINS.  137 

Ere  the  supper-time  was  over,  he  had  passed  the  kiln 

of  brick, 
Crossed  the  rushing  Yellow  River,  and  had  forded  quite 

a  creek, 
And  his  flatboat  load  was  taken,  at  the  time  for  pork 

and  beans, 
With  the  traders  of  the  Wabash,  to  the  wharf  at  New 

Orleans. 

Therefore  watches  Martha   Hopkins,  holding   in    her 

hand  the  pans, 
When  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps  seems  exactly  like 

a  man's  ; 
Not  a  wind  the  stove-pipe  rattles,  nor  a  door  behind  her 

jars, 
But  she  seems  to  hear  the  rattle  of  his  letting  down  the 

bars. 

Often  sees  she  men  on  horseback,  coming  down  the 

turnpike  rough, 
But  they  come  not  as  John  Jackson,  she  can  see  it  well 

enough ; 
Well  she  knows  the  sober  trotting  of  the  sorrel  horse 

he  keeps, 
As  he  jogs  along  at  leisure,  with  his  head  down  like  a 

sheep's. 


138  MARTHA    HOPKINS. 

She  would  know  him  'mid  a  thousand,  by  his  home-made 

coat  and  vest ; 
By  his  socks,  which  were  blue  woollen,  such  as  farmers 

wear  out  west ; 
By  the  color  of  his  trousers,  and  his  saddle,  which  was 

spread 
By  a  blanket  which  was  taken  for  that  purpose  from 

the  bed. 

None  like  he  the  yoke  of  hickory  on  the  unbroken  ox 

can  throw, 
None  amid  his   father's  cornfields  use    like  him  the 

spade  and  hoe  ; 
And  at  all  the  apple-cuttings,  few  indeed  the  men  are 

seen, 
That  can  dance  with  him  the  Polka,  touch  with  him  the 

violin. 

He  has  said  to  Martha  Hopkins,  and  she  thinks  she 

hears  him  now, 
For  she  knows  as  well  as  can  be,  that  he  meant  to  keep 

his  vow, 
When  the  buckeye  tree  has  blossomed,  and  your  uncle 

plants  his  corn, 
Shall  the  bells  of  Indiana  usher  in  the  wedding  morn. 


MARTHA    HOPKINS.  139 

He  has  pictured  his  relations,  each  in  Sunday  hat  and 

gown, 
And  he  thinks  he  '11  get  a  carriage,  and  they  '11  spend 

a  day  in  town  ; 
That  their  love  will  newly  kindle,  and  what  comfort  it 

will  give, 
To  sit  down  to  the  first  breakfast,  in  the  cabin  where 

they  '11  live. 

Tender  eyes  of  Martha  Hopkins  !  what  has  got  you  in 

such  scrape  ? 
'T  is  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter  on  the  rufHe  of  her 

cape. 
Ah  !  the  eye  of  love  may  brighten,  to  be  certain  what 

it  sees, 
One  man  looks  much  like  another,  when  half  hidden 

by  the  trees. 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle,  she  forgets  the  pies  and 

bread, 
As  she  sees  a  man  on  horseback,  round  the  corner  of 

the  shed. 
Now  tie  on  another  apron,  get  the  comb  and  smooth 

your  hair, 
'T  is  the  sorrel  horse  that  gallops,  't  is  John  Jackson's 

self  that  's  there  ! 


•140 


WORSER    MOMENTS. 

THAT  fellow's  voice  !  how  often  steals 

Its  cadence  o'er  my  lonely  days  ! 
Like  something  sent  on  wagon-wheels, 

Or  packed  in  an  unconscious  chaise. 
I  might  forget  the  words  he  said 

When  all  the  children  fret  and  cry, 
But  when  I  get  them  off  to  bed, 

His  gentle  tone  comes  stealing  by, 
And  years  of  matrimony  flee, 
And  leave  me  sitting  on  his  knee. 

The  times  he  came  to  court  a  spell, 
The  tender  things  he  said  to  me, 

Make  me  remember  mighty  well 
My  hopes  that  he  'd  propose  to  me. 


WORSER    MOMENTS.  141 

My  face  is  uglier,  and  perhaps 

Time  and  the  comb  have  thinned  my  hair, 
And  plain  and  common  are  the  caps 

And  dresses  that  I  have  to  wear ; 
But  memory  is  ever  yet 
With  all  that  fellow's  flatteries  writ. 

I  have  been  out  at  milking-time 

Beneath  a  dull  and  rainy  sky, 
When  in  the  barn  't  was  time  to  feed, 

And  calves  were  bawling  lustily,  — 
When  scattered  hay,  and  sheaves  of  oats, 

And  yellow  corn-ears,  sound  and  hard, 
And  all  that  makes  the  cattle  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness  through  the  yard,  — 
When  all  was  hateful,  then  have  I, 

With  friends  who  had  to  help  me  milk, 
Talked  of  his  wife  most  spitefully, 

And  how  he  kept  her  dressed  in  silk ; 
And  when  the  cattle,  running  there, 

Threw  over  me  a  shower  of  mud, 
That  fellow's  voice  came  on  the  air, 

Like  the  light  chewing  of  the  cud, 
And  resting  near  some  speckled  cow, 

The  spirit  of  a  woman's  spite, 


142  WORSER    MOMENTS. 

I  Ve  poured  a  low  and  fervent  vow 
To  make  him,  if  I  had  the  might, 
Live  all  his  lifetime  just  as  hard, 
And  milk  his  cows  in  such  a  yard. 

I  have  been  out  to  pick  up  wood, 

When  night  was  stealing  from  the  dawn, 

Before  the  fire  was  burning  good, 
Or  I  had  put  the  kettle  on 

The  little  stove,  —  when  babes  were  wakino- 

D 

With  a  low  murmur  in  the  beds, 
And  melody  by  fits  was  breaking 

Above  their  little  yellow  heads,  — 
And  this  when  I  was  up  perhaps 
From  a  few  short  and  troubled  naps,  — 

And  when  the  sun  sprang  scorchingly 
And  freely  up,  and  made  us  stifle, 

And  fell  upon  each  hill  and  tree 
The  bullets  from  his  subtle  rifle,  — 

I  say  a  voice  has  thrilled  me  then, 
Hard  by  that  solemn  pile  of  wood, 

Or  creeping  from  the  silent  glen, 
Like  something  on  the  unfledged  brood, 

Hath  stricken  me,  and  I  have  pressed 
Close  in  my  arms  my  load  of  chips, 


WORSER    MOMENTS.  143 

And  pouring  forth  the  hatefulest 
Of  words  that  ever  passed  my  lips, 

Have  felt  my  woman's  spirit  rush 
On  me,  as  on  that  milking  night, 

And,  yielding  to  the  blessed  gush 
Of  my  ungovernable  spite, 

Have  risen  up,  the  wed,  the  old, 

Scolding  as  hard  as  I  could  scold. 


144 


THE    ANNOYER. 


"  Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever."'  —  SIIELLEY. 


LOVE  knoweth  everybody's  house, 

And  every  human  haunt, 
And  comes  unbidden  everywhere, 

Like  people  we  don't  want. 
The  turnpike-roads  and  little  creeks 

Are  written  with  love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  like  a  thousand  bricks 

In  the  lowing  of  the  herds. 

He  peeps  into  the  teamster's  heart, 

From  his  Buena  Vista's  rim, 
And  the  cracking  whips  of  many  men 

Can  never  frighten  him. 


THE    ANNOYER.  145 

He  '11  come  to  his  cart  in  the  weary  night, 

When  he  's  dreaming  of  his  craft ; 
And  he  '11  float  to  his  eye  in  the  morning  light, 

Like  a  man  on  a  river  raft. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  cooper's  adze, 

And  makes  him  too  his  dupe, 
For  he  sighs  in  his  ear  from  the  shaving  pile, 

As  he  hammers  on  the  hoop. 
The  little  girl,  the  beardless  boy, 

The  men  that  walk  or  stand, 
He  will  get  them  all  in  his  mighty  arms, 

Like  the  grasp  of  your  very  hand. 

The  shoemaker  bangs  above  his  bench, 

And  ponders  his  shining  awl, 
For  love  is  under  the  lapstone  hid, 

And  a  spell  is  on  the  wall. 
It  heaves  the  sole  where  he  drives  the  pegs, 

And  speaks  in  every  blow, 
Till  the  last  is  dropped  from  his  crafty  hand 

And  his  foot  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  prints  which  the  shopmen  sell, 
And  intrudes  on  the  hatter's  trade, 
10 


146 


THE    ANNOYER. 


And  profanes  the  hostler's  stable-yard 
In  the  shape  of  the  chamber-maid. 

In  the  darkest  night  and  the  bright  daylight, 
Knowing  that  he  can  win, 

In  every  home  of  good-looking  folks 
Will  human  love  come  in. 


147 


SAMUEL    BROWN. 

IT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  dwelling  down  in  town, 
That  a  fellow  there  lived  whom  you  may  know, 

By  the  name  of  Samuel  Brown  ; 
And  this  fellow  he  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  our  house  to  come  down. 

I  was  a  child,  and  he  was  a  child, 

In  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love, 

I  and  my  Samuel  Brown,  — 
With  a  love  that  the  ladies  coveted, 

Me  and  Samuel  Brown. 


148  SAMUEL    BROWN. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

To  that  dwelling  down  in  town, 
A  girl  came  out  of  her  carriage,  courting 

My  beautiful  Samuel  Brown ; 
So  that  her  high-bred  kinsman  came 

And  bore  away  Samuel  Brown, 
And  shut  him  up  in  a  dwelling-house, 

In  a  street  quite  up  in  town. 

The  ladies  not  half  so  happy  up  there, 

Went  envying  me  and  Brown  ; 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason,  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  dwelling  down  in  town,) 
That  the  girl  came  out  of  the  carriage  by  night, 

Coquetting  and  getting  my  Samuel  Brown. 

But  our  love  is  more  artful  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  are  older  than  we,  — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we,  — 
And  neither  the  girls  that  are  living  above, 

Nor  the  girls  that  are  down  in  town, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 

For  the  morn  never  shines  without  bringing  me  lines 
From  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown  ; 


SAMUEL    BROWN.  149 

And  the  night  's  never  dark,  but  I  sit  in  the  park 

With  my  beautiful  Samuel  Brown. 
And  often  by  day,  I  walk  down  in  Broadway, 
With  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life  and  my  stay, 

To  our  dwelling  down  in  town, 
To  our  house  in  the  street  down  town. 


150 


GRANNY'S    HOUSE. 

COMRADES,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis 

early  morn, 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon 

the  dinner-horn. 
'T  is  the  place,  and  all  about  it,  as  of  old,  the  rat  and 

mouse 
Very  loudly  squeak  and  nibble,  running  over  Granny's 

house ; — 
Granny's  house,  with  all  its  cupboards,  and  its  rooms 

as  neat  as  wax, 
And  its  chairs  of  wood  unpainted,  where  the  old  cats 

rubbed  their  backs. 
Many  a  night  from  yonder  garret  window,  ere   I  went 

to  rest, 
Did  I  see  the  cows  and  horses  come  in  slowly  from  the 

west ; 


GRANNY'S  HOUSE.  151 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  chickens,  flying  upward  through 

the  trees, 
Roosting  on  the  sleety  branches,  when  I  thought  their 

feet  would  freeze ; 
Here  about  the  garden  wandered,  nourishing  a  youth 

sublime 
With  the  beans,  and  sweet  potatoes,  and  the  melons 

which  were  prime ; 
When  the  pumpkin-vines  behind  me  with  their  precious 

fruit  reposed, 
When  I  clung   about  the  pear-tree,  for  the  promise 

that  it  closed, 

When  I  dipt  into  the  dinner  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  vision  of  the  pie,  and  all  the  dessert  that  would 

be. 
In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's 

breast ; 

In  the  spring  the  noisy  pullet  gets  herself  another  nest ; 
In  the  spring  a  livelier  spirit  makes  the  ladies'  tongues 

more  glib ; 
In  the  spring  a  young  boy's  fancy  lightly  hatches  up  a 

fib. 
Then  her  cheek  was  plump  and  fatter  than  should  be 

for  one  so  old, 
And  she  eyed  my  every  motion,  with  a  mute  intent  to 

scold. 


152 


And  I  said,  My  worthy  Granny,  now  I  speak  the  truth 

to  thee, — 
Better  believe  it, —  I  have  eaten  all  the  apples  from  one 

tree. 
On  her  kindling  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and 

a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy'red  flashing  in  the  northern 

night ; 
And  she  turned, —  her  fist  was  shaken  at  the  coolness 

of  the  lie ; 
She  was  mad,  and  I  could  see  it,  by  the  snapping  of 

her  eye, 
Saying  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do 

thee  wrong,  — 
Saying,  "  I  shall  whip  you,  Sammy,  whipping,  I  shall 

go  it  strong  !  " 
She  took  me  up  and  turned  me  pretty  roughly,  when 

she  'd  done, 
And  every  time  she   shook   me,   I  tried  to  jerk  and 

run  ; 
She  took  off  my  little  coat,  and  struck  again  with  all 

her  might, 
And  before  another  minute  I  was    free    and   out   of 

sight. 
Many  a  morning,  just  to  tease  her,  did  I  tell  her  stories 

yet, 


153 


Though  her  whisper  made  me  tingle,  when  she  told  me 

what  I  'd  get  ; 
Many  an  evening  did  I  see  her  where  the  willow  sprouts 

grew  thick, 
And  I  rushed  away  from  Granny  at  the  touching  of  her 

stick. 
O  my  Granny,  old  and  ugly,  O  my  Granny's  hatefnl 

deeds, 

0  the  empty,  empty  garret,  O  the  garden  gone   to 

weeds, 

Grosser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  Grosser  than  all  songs 
have  sung, 

1  was  puppet  to  your  threat,  and  servile  to  your  shrew 

ish  tongue, 
Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy,  having  seen  thy  whip 

decline 
On  a  boy  with  lower  shoulders,  and  a  narrower  back, 

than  mine  ? 
Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the 

dinner-horn,  — 
They  to  whom  my  Granny's  whippings  were  a  target 

for  their  scorn ; 
Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  mouldered 

string  ? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  the 

mean  old  thing ; 


154 


GRANNY'S  HOUSE. 


Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's  pleas 
ure,  woman's  spite, 
Nature  made   them  quicker  motions,   a  considerable 

sight. 
Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  whippings  matched 

with  mine 
Are    as  moonlight   unto   sunlight,  and  as  water  unto 

wine. 
Here  at  least  when  I  was  little,  something,  O,  for  some 

retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  crowded  city  where  my  life  began  to 

beat, 
Where  one  winter  fell  my  father,  slipping  off  a  keg  of 

lard, 
I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  my  case  was  pretty 

hard. 
Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit,  and  to  wander  far  and 

fleet, 
On  from  farm-house  unto  farm-house  till  I  found  my 

Uncle  Pete, 

Larger  sheds  and  barns,  and  newer,  and  a  better  neigh 
borhood, 
Greater  breadth  of  field  and  woodland,  and  an  orchard 

just  as  good. 
Never    comes   my   Granny,   never   cuts    her  willow 

switches  there  ; 


155 


Boys  are  safe  at  Uncle  Peter's,  I  '11  bet  you  what  you 

dare. 
Hangs  the  heavy  fruited  pear-tree  :   you  may  eat  just 

what  you  like. 
'T  is  a  sort  of  little  Eden,  about  two   miles  off  the 

pike. 
There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment,  more  than  being 

quite  so  near 
To  the  place  where  even  in  manhood  I  almost  shake 

with  fear. 
There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,   shall  have 

scope  and  breathing  space. 
I  will  'scape  that  savage  woman,  she  shall  never  rear 

my  race  ; 
Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive  and  they 

shall  run ; 
She  has  caught  me  like  a  wild  goat,  but  she  shall  not 

catch  my  son. 
He  shall  whistle  to  the  dog,  and  get  the  books  from  off 

the  shelf, 
Not,  with  blinded  eyesight,  cutting  ugly  whips  to  whip 

himself. 
Fool  again,  the   dream  of  fancy !  no,  I  don't  believe 

it 's  bliss, 

But  I  'm  certain  Uncle  Peter's  is  a  better  place  than 
this. 


156  GRANNY'S  HOUSE. 

Let  them  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  all 

glorious  gains, 
Like  the  horses  in  the  stables,  like  the  sheep  that  crop 

the  lanes ; 
Let  them  mate  with  dirty  cousins,  —  what  to  me  were 

style  or  rank, 
I  the  heir  of  twenty  acres,  and  some  money  in  the 

bank  ? 
Not  in  vain  the  distance  beckons,  forward  let  us  urge 

our  load, 
Let  our  cart-wheels  spin  till  sun-down,  ringing  down 

the  grooves  of  road  ; 
Through  the  white  dust  of  the  turnpike  she  can't  see 

to  give  us  chase  : 
Better  seven  years  at  uncle's,  than  fourteen  at  Granny's 

place. 
O,  I  see  the   blessed  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not 

set! 
If  we  once  get  in  the  wagon,  we  will  circumvent  her 

yet. 
Howsoever  these  things,  be  a  long  farewell  to  Granny's 

farm : 
Not  for  me  she  '11  cut  the  willows,  not  at  me  she  '11 

shake  her  arm. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath 
and  holt, 


GRANNY'S  HOUSE.  157 

Cramming   all  the  blast  before  it, —  guess  it  holds  a 

thunderbolt : 
Wish   't  would  fall  on  Granny's  house,  with  rain,  or 

hail,  or  fire,  or  snow, 
Let  me  get  my  horses  started  Uncle  Pete  ward,  and  I  '11 

go- 


158 


"THE   DAY  IS  DONE." 

THE  day  is  done,  and  darkness 
From  the  wing  of  night  is  loosed, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  a  chicken  going  to  roost. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  baker 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  mist, 

And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me. 
That  I  cannot  well  resist. 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  like  being  sick, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  a  brick-bat  resembles  a  brick. 


159 


Come,  get  for  me  some  supper,  — 
A  good  and  regular  meal, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  pain  I  feel. 

Not  from  the  pastry  baker's, 
Not  from  the  shops  for  cake, 

I  would  n't  give  a  farthing 
For  all  that  they  can  make. 

For,  like  the  soup  at  dinner, 
Such  things  would  but  suggest 

Some  dishes  more  substantial, 
And  to-night  I  want  the  best. 

Go  to  some  honest  butcher, 
Whose  beef  is  fresh  and  nice 

As  any  they  have  in  the  city, 
And  get  a  liberal  slice. 

Such  things  through  days  of  labor, 
And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 

For  sad  and  desperate  feelings 
Are  wonderful  remedies. 


160  "  THE    DAY    IS    DONE." 

They  have  an  astonishing  power 

To  aid  and  reinforce, 
And  come  like  the  "  Finally,  brethren," 

That  follows  a  long  discourse. 

Then  get  me  a  tender  sirloin 
From  off  the  bench  or  hook, 

And  lend  to  its  sterling  goodness 
The  science  of  the  cook. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  comfort, 
And  the  cares  with  which  it  begun 

Shall  fold  up  their  blankets  like  Indians, 
And  silently  cut  and  run. 


161 


JOHN  THOMPSON'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  FELLOW  near  Kentucky's  clime 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry, 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  dime 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now,  who  would  cross  the  Ohio, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 

"  O,  I  am  this  young  lady's  beau, 
And  she  John  Thompson's  daughter. 

"  We  've  fled  before  her  father's  spite 

With  great  precipitation, 
And  should  he  find  us  here  to-night, 

I  'd  lose  my  reputation. 
11 


162  JOHN    THOMPSON'S    DAUGHTER. 

"  They  've  missed  the  girl  and  purse  beside, 
His  horsemen  hard  have  pressed  me, 

And  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride, 
If  yet  they  shall  arrest  me  ?  " 

Out  spoke  the  boatman  then  in  time, 
"  You  shall  not  fail,  don't  fear  it : 

I  '11  go,  not  for  your  silver  dime, 
But  for  your  manly  spirit. 

"  And  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
For  though  a  storm  is  coming  on, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  wind  more  fiercely  rose, 

The  boat  was  at  the  landing, 
And  with  the  drenching  rain  their  clothes 

Grew  wet  where  they  were  standing. 

But  still,  as  wilder  rose  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Just  back  a  piece  came  the  police, 
Their  tramping  sounded  nearer. 


JOHN  THOMPSON'S  DAUGHTER.  163 

"  0,  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 

"  It 's  any  thing  but  funny  ; 
I  '11  leave  the  light  of  loving  eyes, 

But  not  my  father's  money  !  " 

And  still  they  hurried  in  the  face 

Of  wind  and  rain  unsparing ; 
John  Thompson  reached  the  landing-place, 

His  wrath  was  turned  to  swearing. 

For  by  the  lightning's  angry  flash, 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  held  all  his  cash, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover ! 

"  Come  back,  come  back,"  he  cried  in  woe, 

Across  the  stormy  water  ; 
"  But  leave  the  purse,  and  you  may  go, 

My  daughter,  O  my  daughter  ! " 

'T  was  vain ;  they  reached  the  other  shore, 
(Such  dooms  the  Fates  assign  us,) 

The  gold  he  piled  went  with  his  child, 
And  he  was  left  there,  minus. 


164 


GIRLS  WERE   MADE   TO  MOURN. 

WHEN  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  everybody  shiver, 
One  evening  as  I  wandered  forth, 

Along  the  Wabash  River, 
I  spied  a  woman  past  her  prime, 

Yet  with  a  youthful  air, 
Her  face  was  covered  o'er  with  curls 

Of  well-selected  hair  ! 

Young  woman,  whither  wanderest  thou  ? 

Began  the  prim  old  maid  ; 
Are  visions  of  a  home  to  be, 

In  all  thy  dreams  displayed  ? 
Or  haply  wanting  but  a  mate, 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth  with  me  to  mourn 

The  indifference  of  man  ! 


GIRLS    WERE    MADE    TO    MOURN.  1G5 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  fields, 

Outspreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  thousands  by  their  own  hearth  sit, 

Or  in  their  carriage  ride,  — 
I  've  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Just  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs, 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn ! 

O  girls  !  when  in  your  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Misspending  all  your  precious  hours, 

Your  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Thinking  to  wed  just  when  you  please, 

From  beau  to  beau  you  turn, 
Which  tenfold  force  gives  nature's  law, 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn  ! 

Look  not  on  them  in  youthful  prime, 

Ere  life's  best  years  are  spent ! 
Man  will  be  gallant  to  them  then, 

And  give  encouragement ! 
But  see  them  when  they  cease  to  speak 

Of  each  birthday's  return  ; 
Then  want  and  single-blessedness 

Show  girls  were  made  to  mourn  ! 


166  GIRLS    WERE    MADE    TO    MOURN. 

A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

By  husband's  hands  caressed, 
But  think  not  all  the  married  folks 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
For,  oh  !  what  crowds,  whose  lords  are  out, 

That  stay  to  patch  and  darn, 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  girls  were  made  to  mourn  ! 

Many  and  sharp  and  numerous  ills, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, — 
Man's  cold  indifference  to  us 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

If  I  'm  designed  to  live  alone, — 

By  nature's  law  designed, — 
Why  was  this  constant  wish  to  wed 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

Man's  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  he  the  will  and  power 

To  make  me  for  him  mourn  ? 


GIRLS    WERE    MADE    TO    MOURN.  167 

See  yonder  young,  accomplished  girl, 

Whose  words  are  smooth  as  oil, 
Who  'd  marry  almost  any  one 

To  keep  her  hands  from  toil ; 
But  see,  the  lordly  gentleman 

Her  favors  don't  return, 
Unmindful  though  a  weeping  ma 

And  bankrupt  father  mourn  ! 

Yet  let  not  this,  my  hopeful  girl, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 
This  awful  view  of  woman's  fate 

Is  surely  not  the  best  ! 
The  poor,  despised,  plain  old  maid 

Had  never  sure  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  who  mourn  ! 

0  death  !  the  poor  girl's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  weary  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  to  rest ! 
The  young,  the  married,  fear  thy  blow 

From  hope  or  husbands  torn  ; 
But  oh !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

In  single  life  who  mourn  ! 


1G8 


TO  INEZ.- 

NAY,  smile  not  at  my  garments  now  ; 

Alas  !  1  cannot  smile  again  : 
Yet  Heaven  avert  that  ever  thou 

Shouldst  dress,  and  haply  dress  so  plain. 

And  dost  thou  ask,  Why  should  I  be 
The  jest  of  every  foe  and  friend  ? 

And  wilt  thou  vainly  seek  to  see 

A  garb,  even  thou  must  fail  to  mend  ? 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  hate, 

Nor  low  Ambition's  honors  lost, 

That  bids  me  loathe  my  present  state, 
And  fly  from  all  I  loved  the  most : 


TO    INEZ.  169 

It  is  the  contrast  which  will  spring 

From  all  I  meet,  or  hear,  or  see  : 
To  me  no  garments  tailors  bring,  — 

Their  shops  have  scarce  a  charm  for  me. 

It  is  a  something  all  who  rub 

Would  know  the  owner  long  had  wore  ; 
That  may  not  look  beyond  the  tub, 

And  cannot  hope  for  help  before. 

What  fellow  from  himself  can  flee  ? 

To  zones,  though  more  and  more  remote, 
Still,  still  pursues,  where'er  I  be, 

The  blight  of  life,  — the  ragged  Coat. 

Yet  others  wrapt  in  broadcloth  seem, 

And  taste  of  all  that  I  forsake  ! 
O,  may  they  still  of  transport  dream, 

And  ne'er,  at  least  like  me,  awake  ! 

Through  many  a  clime  't  is  mine  to  go, 
With  many  a  retrospection  curst ; 

And  all  my  solace  is  to  know, 

Whate'er  I  wear,  I  've  worn  the  worst. 


170  TO    INEZ. 

What  is  that  worst  ?  Nay,  do  not  ask,  — 
In  pity  from  the  search  forbear  : 

Smile  on,  —  nor  venture  to  unclasp 

My  Vest,  and  view  the  Shirt  that  's  there. 


171 


TO    MARY. 

WELL  !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  say 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too  ; 

For  still  I  hate  to  go  away 
As  badly  as  I  used  to  do. 

Thy  husband  's  blest, —  and  't  will  impart 
Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot ; 

But  let  them  pass,  —  O,  how  my  heart 
Would  hate  him,  if  he  clothed  thee  not ! 

When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child, 

I  thought,  like  Dutchmen,  "  I  'd  go  dead," 

But  when  I  saw  its  breakfast  piled, 

I  thought  how  much  'twould  take  for  bread. 


172  TO    MARY. 

I  saw  it,  and  repressed  my  groans 

Its  father  in  its  face  to  see, 
Because  I  knew  my  scanty  funds 

Were  scarce  enough  for  you  and  me. 

Mary,  adieu  !  I  must  away  ; 

While  thou  art  blest,  to  grieve  were  sin, 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  stay, 

Because  I  'd  get  in  love  again. 

I  deemed  that  time,  I  deemed  that  pride, 
My  boyish  feeling  had  subdued, 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
I  'd  try  to  get  you,  if  I  could. 

Yet  was  I  calm  :  I  recollect, 

My  hand  had  once  sought  yours  again, 
But  now  your  husband  might  object, 

And  so  I  kept  it  on  my  cane. 

I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  neither  woe  nor  scoff; 

One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace, 
A  disposition  to  be  off. 


TO    MARY.  173 

Away  !  away,  my  early  dream, 
Remembrance  never  must  awake  ; 

O,  where  is  Mississippi's  stream  ? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break  ! 


174 


THE   CHANGE. 

IN  sunset's  light  o'er  Boston  thrown, 
A  young  man  proudly  stood 

Beside  a  girl,  the  only  one 
He  thought  was  fair  or  good  ; 

The  one  on  whom  his  heart  was  set, 

The  one  he  tried  so  long  to  get. 

He  heard  his  wife's  first  loving  sound, 

A  low,  mysterious  tone, 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found, 

By  beaux  and  gallants  gone  ; 
He  listened  and  his  heart  beat  high, — 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  ! 


THE    CHANGE.  175 

The  rapture  of  the  conqueror's  mood 
Rushed  burning  through  his  frame, 

And  all  the  folks  that  round  him  stood 
Its  torrents  could  not  tame, 

Though  stillness  lay  with  eve's  last  smile 

Round  Boston  Common  all  the  while. 

Years  came  with  care  ;  across  his  life 

There  swept  a  sudden  change, 
E'en  with  the  one  he  called  his  wife, 

A  shadow  dark  and  strange, 
Breathed  from  the  thought  so  swift  to  fall 
O'er  triumph's  hour,  —  and  is  this  all  ? 

No,  more  than  this  !  what  seemed  it  now 

Right  by  that  one  to  stand  ? 
A  thousand  girls  of  fairer  brow 

Walked  his  own  mountain  land  ; 
Whence,  far  o'er  matrimony's  track, 
Their  wild,  sweet  voices  called  him  back. 

They  called  him  back  to  many  a  glade 

Where  once  he  joyed  to  rove, 
Where  often  in  the  beechen  shade 

He  sat  and  talked  of  love  ; 


176  THE    CHANGE. 

They  called  him  with  their  mocking  sport 
Back  to  the  times  he  used  to  court. 

But,  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 
Of  each  remembered  scene, 

Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 
With  all  that  lay  between,  — 

His  wrinkled  face,  his  altered  lot, 

His  children's  wants,  the  wife  he'd  got ! 

Where  was  the  value  of  that  bride 
He  likened  once  to  pearls  ? 

His  weary  heart  within  him  died 
With  yearning  for  the  girls,  — 

All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 

That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept ;  the  wife  that  made  his  bread 

Beheld  the  sad  reverse, 
Even  on  the  spot  where  he  had  said 

"  For  better  or  for  worse." 
O  happiness  !  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  path  in  search  of  thee  ! 


177 


"HE  NEVER  WROTE   AGAIN." 

His  hope  of  publishing  went  down, 

The  sweeping  press  rolled  on  ; 
But  what  was  any  other  crown 

To  him  who  had  n't  one  ? 
He  lived,  —  for  long  may  man  bewail 

When  thus  he  writes  in  vain  : 
Why  comes  not  death  to  those  who  fail 

He  never  wrote  again  ! 

Books  were  put  out,  and  "  had  a  run," 
Like  coinage  from  the  mint ; 

But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 
That  one  they  would  n't  print  ? 
12 


178  "  HE    NEVER   WROTE   AGAIN." 

Before  him  passed,  in  calf  and  sheep, 
The  thoughts  of  many  a  brain  : 

His  lay  with  the  rejected  heap  :  — 
He  never  wrote  again  ! 

He  sat  where  men  who  wrote  went  round, 

And  heard  the  rhymes  they  built ; 
He  saw  their  works  most  richly  bound, 

With  portraits  and  in  gilt. 
Dreams  of  a  volume  all  forgot 

Were  blent  with  every  strain  : 
A  thought  of  one  they  issued  not  :  — 

He  never  wrote  again  ! 

Minds  in  that  time  closed  o'er  the  trace 

Of  books  once  fondly  read, 
And  others  came  to  fill  their  place, 

And  were  perused  instead. 
Tales  which  young  girls  had  bathed  in  tears 

Back  on  the  shelves  were  lain : 
Fresh  ones  came  out  for  other  years  :  — 

He  never  wrote  again  ! 


179 


THE    SOIREE. 

THIS  is  the  Soiree  :  from  grate  to  entrance, 
Like  milliners'  figures,  stand  the  lovely  girls  ; 

But  from  their  silent  lips  no  merry  sentence 
Disturbs  the  smoothness  of  their  shining  curls. 

Ah  !  what  will  rise,  how  will  they  rally, 

When  shall  arrive  the  "  gentlemen  of  ease  " ! 

What  brilliant  repartee,  what  witty  sally, 
Will  mingle  with  their  pleasant  symphonies  ! 

I  hear  even  now  the  infinite  sweet  chorus, 
The  laugh  of  ecstasy,  the  merry  tone, 

That  through  the  evenings  that  have  gone  before  us 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 


180  THE    SOIREE. 

From  round-faced  Germans  come  the  guttural  voices, 
Through  curling  moustache  steals  the  Italian  clang, 

And,  loud  amidst  their  universal  noises, 

From  distant  corners  sounds  the  Yankee  twang. 

I  hear  the  editor,  who  from  his  office 

Sends  out  his  paper,  filled  with  praise  and  puff, 

And  holy  priests,  who,  when  they  warn  the  scoffers, 
Beat  the  fine  pulpit,  lined  with  velvet  stuff. 

The  tumult  of  each  saqued,  and  charming  maiden, 
The  idle  talk  that  sense  and  reason  drowns, 

The  ancient  dames  with  jewelry  o'erladen, 

And  trains  depending  from  the  brocade  gowns,  — 

The  pleasant  tone,  whose  sweetness  makes  us  wonder, 
The  laugh  of  gentlemen,  and  ladies  too, 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 
The  diapason  of  some  lady  blue,  — 

Is  it,  O  man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  pastimes  so  ridiculous  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature's  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 


THE    SOIREE.  181 

Were  half  the  wealth  that  fills  the  world  with  ladies, 
Were  half  the  time  bestowed  on  caps  and  lace,  , 

Given  to  the  home,  the  husbands,  and  the  babies, 
There  were  no  time  to  visit  such  a  place. 


182 


THE    CITY    LIFE. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  that  sphere  that  keeps 
The  country  youth  that  to  the  city  goes, 

When  all  of  thee,  that  change  can  wither,  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  your  cast-off  clothes  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain, 
If  there  I  meet  thy  one-horse  carriage  not ; 

Nor  see  the  hat  I  love,  nor  ride  again, 
When  thou  art  driving  on  a  gentle  trot. 

Wilt  thou  not  for  me  in  the  city  seek, 

And  turn  to  note  each  passing  shawl  and  gown  ? 
You  used  to  come  and  see  me  once  a  week, — 

Shall  I  be  banished  from  your  thought  in  town  ? 


THE    CITY    LIFE.  1S3 

In  that  great  street  I  don't  know  how  to  find, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  simple  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  country  training  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  in  town,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  greater  praise, 
Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou,  with  skill  and  tact, 

Hast  learnt  the  wisdom  of  the  world's  just  ways, 
And  dressest  well,  and  knowest  how  to  act. 

For  me,  the  country  place  in  which  I  dwell 
Has  made  me  one  of  a  proscribed  band  ; 

And  work  hath  left  its  scar  —  that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  hand. 

Yet  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  town, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  black-satin  vest,  and  morning-gown, 
Lovelier  in  New  York  city,  yet  the  same  ? 


184 


THE    CITY    LIFE. 


Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  grander  home 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this,  — 

The  wisdom  which  is  fine,  —  till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  place  of  bliss  ? 


185 


THE    MARRIAGE   OF   SIR  JOHN    SMITH. 

NOT  a  sigh  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  tone, 
As  the  man  to  his  bridal  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  woman  discharged  her  farewell  groan, 
On  the  spot  where  the  fellow  was  married. 

We  married  him  just  about  eight  at  night, 

Our  faces  paler  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  gas-lamp's  steady  burning. 

No  useless  watch-chain  covered  his  vest, 

Nor  over-dressed  we  found  him  ; 
But  he  looked  like  a  gentleman  wearing  his  best, 

With  a  few  of  his  friends  around  him. 


186  THE    MARRIAGE    OF    SIR   JOHN    SMITH. 

Few  and  short  were  the  things  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow, 

But  we  silently  gazed  on  the  man  that  was  wed, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  silently  stood  about, 

With  spite  and"  anger  dying, 
How  the  merest  stranger  had  cut  us  out, 

With  only  half  our  trying. 

Lightly  we  '11  talk  of  the  fellow  that 's  gone, 
And  oft  for  the  past  upbraid  him  ; 

But  little  he  '11  reck  if  we  let  him  live  on, 
In  the  house  where  his  wife  conveyed  him. 

But  our  heavy  task  at  length  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  spiteful  squib  and  pun 
The  girls  were  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  turned  to  go,  — 

We  had  struggled,  and  we  were  human  ; 

We  shed  not  a  tear,  and  we  spoke  not  our  woe, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  woman. 


167 


BALLAD  OF  THE  CANAL. 

WE  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 
Not  a  soul  had  room  to  sleep  ; 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters, 
And  the  banks  were  very  steep. 

'T  is  a  fearful  thing  when  sleeping 
To  be  startled  by  the  shock, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  "  Coming  to  a  lock  !  " 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, 
For  the  stoutest  berth  was  shook, 

While  the  wooden  gates  were  opened 
And  the  mate  talked  with  the  cook. 


188  BALLAD  OF  THE  CANAL. 

As  thus  we  lay  in  darkness, 

Each  one  wishing  we  were  there, 

"  We  are  through  !  "  the  captain  shouted, 
And  he  sat  down  on  a  chair. 

And  his  little  daughter  whispered, 
Thinking  that  he  ought  to  know, 

"  Is  n't  travelling  by  canal-boats 
Just  as  safe  as  it  is  slow  ?  " 

Then  he  kissed  the  little  maiden, 
And  with  better  cheer  we  spoke, 

And  we  trotted  into  Pittsburg 

When  the  morn  looked  through  the  smoke. 


189 


I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

The  house  where  I  was  wed, 
And  the  little  room  from  which,  that  night, 

My  smiling  bride  was  led  ; 
She  did  n't  come  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  make  too  long  a  stay  ; 
But  now  I  often  wish  her  folks 

Had  kept  the  girl  away  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Her  dresses,  red  and  white, 
Her  bonnets  and  her  caps  and  cloaks,  — 

They  cost  an  awful  sight ! 


190          I  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER. 

The  "  corner  lot  "  on  which  I  built, 
And  where  my  brother  met 

At  first  my  wife,  one  washing-day, — 
That  man  is  single  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  court, 
And  thought  that  all  of  married  life 

Was  just  such  pleasant  sport : 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

No  care  was  on  my  brow ; 
I  scarce  could  wait  to  shut  the  gate,  — 

I  'm  not  so  anxious  now  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

My  dear  one's  smile  and  sigh  ; 
I  used  to  think  her  tender  heart 

Was  close  against  the  sky  ; 
It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  it  soothes  me  not 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  she  was  n't  got ! 


191 


JACOB. 

HE  dwelt  among  "  apartments  let," 

About  five  stories  high  ; 
A  man  I  thought  that  none  would  get, 

And  very  few  would  try. 

A  boulder,  by  a  larger  stone 

Half  hidden  in  the  mud, 
Fair  as  a  man  when  only  one 

Is  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  tell 
When  Jacob  was  not  free  ; 

But  he  has  got  a  wife,  —  and  0  ! 
The  difference  to  me  ! 


192 


THE    WIFE. 

HER  washing  ended  with  the  day, 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  passed  the  long,  long  night  away, 

In  darning  ragged  hose. 

But  when  the  sun  in  all  his  state 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  about  the  kitchen  grate, 

And  went  to  making  pies. 


193 


A  PSALM   OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OP  THE  YOUNG  WOMAN   SAID  TO  THE  OLD  MAID. 

TELL  me  not,  in  idle  jingle, 

Marriage  is  an  empty  dream, 
For  the  girl  is  dead  that 's  single, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Married  life  is  real,  earnest ; 

Single  blessedness  a  fib  ; 
Taken  from  man,  to  man  returnest, 

Has  been  spoken  of  the  rib. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Nearer  brings  the  wedding-day. 
13 


194  A   PSALM    OF    LIFE. 

Life  is  long,  and  youth  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  if  there  we  search, 

Still  like  steady  drums  are  beating 
Anxious  marches  to  the  church. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  ! 

Be  a  woman,  be  a  wife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present : 

Heart  within,  and  MAN  ahead  ! 

Lives  of  married  folks  remind  us 
We  can  live  our  lives  as  well, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Such  examples  as  will  tell ;  — 

Such  examples,  that  another, 
Sailing  far  from  Hymen's  port, 

A  forlorn,  unmarried  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart,  and  court. 


A    PSALM    OF    LIFE.  195 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 

With  the  heart  and  head  begin ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor,  and  to  win  ! 


196 


"  THERE  'S  A  BOWER   OF  BEAN- VINES." 

THERE  's  a  bower  of  bean-vines  in  Benjamin's  yard, 
And  the  cabbages  grow  round  it,  planted  for  greens ; 

In  the  time  of  my  childhood  't  was  terribly  hard 

To  bend  down  the  bean-poles,  and  pick  off  the  beans. 

That  bower  and  its  products  I  never  forget, 
But  oft,  when  my  landlady  presses  me  hard, 

I  think,  are  the  cabbages  growing  there  yet, 

Are  the  bean-vines  still  bearing  in  Benjamin's  yard  ? 

No,  the  bean-vines  soon  withered  that  once  used  to  wave, 
But   some   beans   had  been  gathered,  the  last  that 
hung  on, 

And  a  soup  was  distilled  in  a  kettle,  that  gave 

All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 


"  THERE  'S    A    BOWER    OF    BEAN-VINES."  197 

Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 
An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  awfully  hard  ; 

And  thus  good  to  my  taste  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes, 
Is  that  bower  of  bean-vines  in  Benjamin's  yard. 


198 


"WHEN    LOVELY    WOMAN." 

WHEN  lovely  woman  wants  a  favor, 

And  finds,  too  late,  that  man  wont  bend, 

What  earthly  circumstance  can  save  her 
From  disappointment  in  the  end  ? 

The  only  way  to  bring  him  over, 

The  last  experiment  to  try, 
Whether  a  husband  or  a  lover, 

If  he  have  feeling,  is,  to  cry  ! 


199 


SHAKESPEARIAN  READINGS. 

OH,  but  to  fade,  and  live  we  know  not  where, 

To  be  a  cold  obstruction  and  to  groan  ! 

This  sensible,  warm  woman,  to  become 

A  prudish  clod  ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 

To  live  and  die  alone,  or  to  reside 

With  married  sisters,  and  to  have  the  care 

Of  half  a  dozen  children,  not  your  own  ; 

And  driven,  for  no  one  wants  you, 

Round  about  the  pendant  world  ;  or  worse  than  worst 

Of  those  that  disappointment  and  pure  spite 

Have  driven  to  madness  :  'T  is  too  horrible  ! 

The  weariest  and  most  troubled  married  life 

That  age,  ache,  penury,  or  jealousy 

Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 

To  being  an  old  maid. 


200  SHAKESPEARIAN  READINGS. 

THAT  very  time  I  saw,  (but  thou  couldst  not,) 
Walking  between  the  garden  and  the  barn, 
Reuben,  all  armed  ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  young  chicken,  standing  by  a  post, 
And  loosed  his  bullet  smartly  from  his  gun, 
As  he  would  kill  a  hundred  thousand  hens. 
But  I  might  see  young  Reuben's  fiery  shot 
Lodged  in  the  chaste  board  of  the  garden  fence, 
And  the  domesticated  fowl  passed  on, 
In  henly  meditation,  bullet  free. 


MY  father  had  a  daughter  got  a  man, 

As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  good-looking, 

I  should,  your  lordship. 

And  what 's  her  residence  ? 

A  hut,  my  lord,  she  never  owned  a  house, 

But  let  her  husband,  like  a  graceless  scamp, 

Spend  all  her  little  means, — she  thought  she  ought,' 

And  in  a  wretched  chamber,  on  an  alley, 

She  worked  like  masons  on  a  monument, 

Earning  their  bread.     Was  not  this  love  indeed  ? 


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